


Dreams

by Kawaiikidney



Category: overwatch
Genre: Abuse, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Injury, Jesse works for talon lmao, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Mildly Dubious Consent, Physical Abuse, Sex Slave, Sexual Abuse, Smut, anal penetration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiikidney/pseuds/Kawaiikidney
Summary: The infamous Yakuza leader Shimada Hanzo takes a particular interest in Jesse McCree, Talon's representative for a meeting held in the Shimada estate. Jesse should have known better than to have let his guard down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as me wanting to write something about McCree and then it spiraled into the rest of this. I had no honest idea what the concept was for this fic so ??? it was just me freely writing without like restraint so apologies if it's a bit weird. Also this is like, the longest one shot I have ever done, and I really didn't intend for it to get as big as it did, but the more I wrote, the more I needed to add bc like... it just didn't feel finished  
> I had like........ so much more to write, too, but i got kinda tired of this and wanted to say i finished it  
> Anyways I hope y'all enjoy!!! comments & kudos are always appreciated

There had been no sun where he was, but if his internal clocks hadn’t gone awry, McCree was certain it was midday. The lighting in the base had barely offered any reflection on that, his stomach offered a pang of hunger that was either for the lack of breakfast that morning or a reminder for lunch. He reprimanded himself to focus instead of dwelling on when he was to eat. 

McCree stood abreast Reaper, who was sat comfortably in a chair probably more expensive than both of Jesse’s kidneys, his arms against an elegant, glass round table, the scowl he bore present on his hunched up shoulders and the claws that threatened to break the glass underneath them. His boss was a legend at being able to hide his emotions, McCree had prided himself in being able to pick up the subtle nuances his body language betrayed, but it appeared that today he could not hold as much self restraint. If it were not for the mask, he was certain that Reaper was glowering at each person that sat on the table. 

McCree hadn’t heard what was said and he tried to compensate by turning an attentive eye to the rest of the conversation. The tensions were thick enough for his own body to tense in unease. 

“-- we cannot afford another loss due to your inattentiveness, Gabriel,” McCree inwardly flinched; no one called Reaper by his living name and lived. Except the people in front of him could sell him, buy him, and sell him a hundred times without a problem. They were too powerful to be afraid of Reaper. “As a council, we have decided to put you on careful watch, to be dismissed if there is even a hint toward anything but perfection.” The man, well, omnic, that spoke betrayed no outward emotion, yet his aura oozed that of superiority. Head tilted back slightly, digits ever so carefully intertwined, the lights that indicated his sight shining bright with full concentration. He was the image of a man in power reprimanding a lower being. 

Reaper all but trembled in anger for a split moment and McCree resisted the urge to take a step back. It would only cause his boss to divert his anger to him if he did not act like a ghost that very second. He was not there to react, he was not there for input; Jesse McCree was a quiet guard, the unofficial second-in-command, the man to take in information and discuss the details later. 

“It pains us to do this, Reaper,” a woman to the left spoke, the second of the four seated, her sharp eyes boring into his boss with unrelenting coldness. She appeared old enough to be his mom, except she lacked the smile-lines, or any real wrinkles. It was her withered hands that gave him the distinct impression she was older. Her age was artificial, and the epitome of what money could buy. “You are dedicated, and have done Talon a great service thus far. But you have become sloppy, and our organization cannot afford that.”

Reaper did not speak, did not offer them a hint of the rage McCree could practically taste, which was the smartest thing he could have done at that time. He bowed his head when needed and let the meeting continue. There was talk of trade deals, relevant information to their organization, important criminal jargon McCree could just barely listen to. It was the same as every meeting, but this time Reaper had him on an edge, he could only just imagine what hell the man wanted to raise. 

The omnic, Maximilien, called the meeting to a dismissal with a wave of the hand. Three of the Talon leaders’ holograms flickered away as their connections ceased. The omnic was the only one present, aside from themselves. This was the underground base of his casino, after all. 

Dim lights raised in intensity as Maximilien rose to a stand, offering a curt bow of his head, “I hope you can rectify yourself, Gabriel. Good evening.” He walked out of the conference room and McCree watched as two omnic guards thicker than he escorted him down the corridor. He felt himself finally relax and breathe out evenly, though the ‘relax’ could only go so far with Reaper keeping deathly still and staring at Maximilian’s retreat.

There was a rivalry between Maximilien and Reaper that McCree had never been able to put a finger on, had never been able to trace back for as long as he’d been under Reaper’s wing. He wasn’t about to ask any time soon, though, especially not with what just happened. Reaper spoken down to, with his subordinate hearing the humiliation loud and clear. It was almost as bad as the time… scratch that, this was pretty damn bad.

“Well, Boss, ya can’t win ‘em all,” McCree said with a touch of faux-positivity, just to lighten some of the still-present tension, or at least to pull his boss out of the silence he’d wound himself into. Silence never bode well. It meant there was something right around the corner and Jesse J. McCree hated surprises. 

Reaper stood in abrupt, causing the chair to topple back, and it was all McCree could do from getting out of the way. 

There was a hand to his neck, sharp claws piercing his flesh, and he suddenly could not see anything but bright, white light. 

He could hear, though, and what he heard was a raspy voice, trembling in anger, spitting out, “You ruined that mission, McCree, do you fucking remember?! _Tú eres la razón, carajo! No dije nada, para un puto idiota!_ You know what they could have done to you if they knew that I covered up your goddamn mistake?! You lost us three hundred _million GODDAMN dollars_ , Jesse, three hundred million...” the hand at his throat squeezed tighter still and Jesse grabbed onto the arm, tried to gasp for air. Only the burn of his lungs met him and he scratched desperately at the arm that held him against the wall. “... I should just kill you right here.” 

The whiteness faded, but only just, allowing for McCree to strain in attempts to look at Reaper. A white owl’s mask stared back at him impassively, death’s omen, the unbidden thought of this being the last thing he saw coursed through his veins and forced his body to fight back more-- kick, gape, claw, escape, something. The pure terror of life’s end propelling him in some fashion that should have felt normal to him, he’d experienced near-death many times, but it was hard to build up a tolerance to that indescribable terror. 

Besides. 

Reaper wouldn’t kill him. 

His lungs felt like they were going to collapse, burn up, explode, no matter how hard he tried to breathe there was nothing, and his body was getting too exhausted, and he didn’t hear what else Reaper was saying to him. All he could focus on was the fucking suffocation. 

Suddenly, crisp air filled his lungs, the darkness that had begun to swallow his eyesight receded, only just. He fell to the ground, on his hands and knees, coughing loudly, tears blurring his vision as his body desperately tried to gain back the loss of air. Clean, godly, pleasant air. 

The relief only lasted so long. There was a sharp pain and a loud snap to his right side and he crumpled to the ground, curling up into a ball to prevent another kick. Waves of electrifying pain were running all throughout his body, forcing him to groan out pathetically, “F-fuck-- fuck, fuck, I’m fuckin’ sorr-- oh fuck, I’m sorry-- shit, shit--.” From the burn in his lungs and neck and now the throbbing painful feeling in his ribs, all McCree could do was cower. Moan in protest when Reaper landed other kicks, but he was so tightly coiled that they were mostly to bruise, not break. A lesson. 

A lesson. 

 

Jesse blinked several times, back to reality, scratching his rib absently. Again he had drifted off in the span of ten minutes, again he had remembered unpleasant memories, and again he had remembered how important this was. If he were to fuck up, that was the end of Jesse. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind Reaper would come down on him hard enough to have him wish he’d been taken hostage by Deadlock instead, and tortured in the special way they torture those that abandon the gang. 

The cart rattled somewhat, McCree glanced out the window. 

The sky was darkening rapidly, he wasn’t sure when he’d reach his destination, not with the train’s intercom system rapidly spouting Japanese in such an accent that he couldn’t pick out key terms for the life of him. All he knew was that, on the screens that wrapped around the top part of the train, _“Hanamura”_ was in bright, legible letters, and that it was _“soon”_. He trailed the name until it disappeared and other names flashed onto the screens.

He waited a good three minutes and again Hanamura popped, this time with _“25 minutes”_. Sighing, Jesse laid his head back and stared at his hands. The _shinkansen_ he was on was public, albeit expensive, but the room he was in definitely wasn’t open to the public. One of the perks of working with a lucrative criminal organization was that money was in abundance, and high class was offered to those doing Talon’s dirty work. 

It had been quite some time since the day Reaper had been humiliated, and he had earned back his reputation in the Talon oligarchy plus some, mostly by never allowing Jesse to do anything again. Punishing him fiercely. Putting him in a well-deserved place. Reaper rose to the top thanks to McCree playing obedient, accepting whatever his boss dished out on him and accepting his lesser status. Thanking Reaper for allowing him to keep Jesse in his ranks. By simply being a good… Whatever he was.

There had been a time where he would have called himself Reaper’s prodigy, but he didn’t know what he was, now. A punching bag, more like it. There had been a time were fight in McCree was vehement against the way he was treated, but really, it was how it should have been. He’d made a mistake. But… this was it. This was how McCree could redeem himself, by doing this task, Jesse could reclaim his status, earn back Reaper’s respect. 

 

“What?” It was a quiet thing, no more a question than it was an instigator. Something that chilled Jesse to the bone and made him take a step back, a cowardly fucking step. He held himself like iron next, because he knew what was to come. 

“The Shimada meetin’. I… I want to be the representative, Boss.” His heart was at his throat and he could see Reaper flexing his fingers, if for the effect of frightening Jesse or just Reaper unconsciously deciding whether or not to harm him, McCree could not tell. Stupid questions weren’t tolerated, and that was by far probably the stupidest thing Jesse had asked in nearly a year. There was a time when he’d talk back to Reaper like a friend, or something akin to it. Now he was terrified to step out of line. 

There was a quiet that dug into him deeply, breath too soft to permeate it. Reaper’s body was languid, but even then McCree was on edge; it was too quiet. Silence bred surprises, yet he wasn’t an idiot, so he kept his mouth sealed shut. Angst twisted his gut. Old, healed wounds burned as a grim and constant reminder. 

He could hear the gambling from above, the slots, the ones losing their lives and the others winning them, it was faint and yet he could hear it, as a distraction. And then, a sharp shake of the head from Reaper, then an easy shrug, “You’ve been good, kid. You can represent.” 

 

_Hanamura, Fukishima Eki, disembarking_

The bullet train’s doors slid open with a quiet hum, and Jesse snapped back to his senses to stand and adjust himself. It was a shame he hadn’t enjoyed the cart; it was a large cabin, full of wines, sake, and finger foods aplenty. A round-faced, stout woman had come in an hour back and offered him a real meal, but he’d kindly turned it down. Hunger had been bated by the travel and anxiety. Despite how fancy the foods were, he wasn’t ready to switch his palette just yet, either. 

The automated Japanese voice announced Hanamura once again, and a number of other things he could not understand. He quickly grabbed his carry-on and rolled out, eyes scanning the dark horizon and the sights that greeted him. Dim lights filled the streets, Jesse rolled to a stop right outside the station to type in the address to his hotel.

Japan was nothing like America, and the quick run-down Talon had offered him on mannerisms helped little in his assimilation. He was still a _gaijin_ and completely out of his element; Boss had even forced him out of his usual cowboy get-up, to at least not stick out as much as he did. Now he was just a very furry foreigner with a strong sense of nakedness, in a graphic t-shirt and boot-cut jeans. Poor little Bessie, his blessed hat, had been left back at base, under Sombra’s careless eye. 

Deep in thought, he rolled his luggage down the street, keeping an eye on the few people that were about at this time. They were dressed a bit more traditionally here, or maybe it was just more comfortably, but Jesse cursed out Reaper mentally; he looked like a stinking foreigner despite having kept his appearances low. They gave him odd looks behind his back and Jesse bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from doing something irrational. A light rain had left the streets and air damp, the scent so clean and unpolluted that it struck Jesse as odd. Not unpleasant, just not what he was used to. He’d never scented anything like it, the rains back in the states weren’t so… natural, and he’d not realized it ‘till now. All the Japanese signs that were up helped little in guiding him to where he needed to be so he kept his eyes glued to the phone. 

The walk was short, and his hotel was not a business one, nor one _gaijin_ went to often, apparently. No one spoke a lick of English, except the broken phrases and hard-to-understand accents, Jesse had to use his translator to get the keys to the room he’d booked. By the time he’d unlocked his room and gotten inside, exhaustion gnawed at his very core. By this time in America, he’d be waking up, and his jet-lagged body cried out in protest for having been up so late. 

Tomorrow was the meeting. Jesse was too tired to even question how the futon was, he just kicked off his shoes, shirt and pants, then passed out on the futon, which had been surprisingly more comfortable than anticipated. 

Sleep had come in fits. Dark dreams haunted Jesse, an occurrence he’d grown used to, but his body’s internal clock was so askew it kept forcing him awake. Sweaty and uncomfortable, his surroundings threw him off radically. All in all, he’d managed to snag a good couple of hours between the restless shifting and angry glaring through closed eyes. 

It just reminded him of his insomnia. 

 

The night black burned bright under his eyelids and forced him to open them once again. How long had it been? How long had he drifted awake, unable to calm his rushing mind? The days blended into weeks. Months. Nightmares kept him awake, his body kept him up, his mind ran faster than he could calm it. Excuses mounted so high that Jesse could not even pinpoint a real cause. Sleep eluded him. 

It was time enough for him to be up, it was five AM. Coffee would stabilize him, keep his bloodshot eyes from shutting close if Reaper were to address him. 

When he’d walked around throughout that day, in the base underneath the casino, the familiar sense of pure, dreamy exhaustion hung onto him like a blanket. At intervals, he’d pinch himself, to make sure that he was really awake and not dreaming. 

Sometimes he’d fear that the pinching would transfer into his dreams, feeling and all, and make differentiating wakefulness and sleep that much harder. It was useless to dwell on but it unnerved him to no end.  
The world around him rolled on without him being able to register it. Like a dream. 

When Reaper called him forth to… He couldn’t remember what it was. Something about some deal he’d want to make, and to have McCree with him, just in case, just to listen, or something. Whatever it was, Jesse fell asleep in the midst of it. It was an odd thing-- One minute, he was focusing in on some burly mafia man’s words, as hard as he could, and the next… 

The meeting had been finished, and Reaper loomed over him, that cold mask offering no indication of concern. He was hunched over, face in front of Jesse’s. 

“Fuckin’ ingrate. How long’s it been since you’ve slept?” The delivery was gruff, but not wholly angered. Irritated, perhaps. 

Usually Jesse would have been uneasy and apologizing. He was much too tired. And that mask was so close. Maybe this was another nightmare. Through muscle memory, he pinched himself, and blinked when a sting crawled up his arm. Oh, shit. 

“You made me look like an idiot, Jesse.” 

There it was. His body tensed on its own accord, a flash of adrenaline spiking inside his body, churning like boiling water. “I-- I’m sorry, Boss. It, uh, it won’t happen again.” A laugh came from the other man, it was short, and crawled underneath Jesse’s very skin. 

It was a surprise when Reaper stalked off, instead of punishing him. That day, paranoia plagued every waking second. When was he going to be punished? Was he going to be? Reaper hadn’t been so lenient since before his big fuck up. After hours of pacing in his room in anticipation, Jesse had hunted Reaper down, and demanded that he did something.

All the man did was shake his head in disbelief. 

 

McCree frowned at the unbidden memory, though he wasn’t quite certain why it had resurfaced. That was probably the only day Reaper had shown him any real “mercy”. It was a horrible day. 

He preferred to get punished. 

Shoving all of that aside, he got to work on getting himself ready for the meeting. Sending Sombra an encrypted text, taking an early shower, fixing himself tea. The room was quaint and spacious for just himself, with tatami mats covering the most of it until it got to the bathroom, which was right next to the entrance. A large window let him view outside, giving him a direct sight of the Shimada estate. The tea was especially bitter and scalded his mouth. 

After a quick stop at the hotel’s breakfast room, that had barely anything Jesse was comfortable eating, he set off to search his surroundings. He’d still a couple more hours until the agreed meeting time, and Jesse was more than entertained by walking into the family-owned shops and food carts, for just a brief time he entertained the idea that this wasn’t a mission, he didn’t work for an organization, and he was just an ordinary man in another country, looking around. 

Of course the illusion fell apart when he took begrudging steps to the Shimada estate. Jesse chose to go to Japan, he chose to do this, chose to try and redeem himself to Reaper. 

Why did he feel so clustered, still? Memories and reminders. Things would be different when he got back. 

It was quiet when he walked up to the estate, the large walls barring access to the lush blossom-tree garden broken only by a massive, shut gate. Two dragons tailed one another in a circle, maws agape, endlessly consuming the other. A perpetual still of the power struggle, a sign of power. Jesse shrugged off unease.

There was a intercom system, a button, and a beady camera right above the speaker. With hesitance, Jesse pressed the button and said, “Uh, hello? I’m here for business. With Mr. Shimada.” 

There was no response, and Jesse raked his brain for the phrases Talon had tried to have him remember when he was still in the states. _Namae?_ That was name. He opened his mouth, preparing to blurt out some butchered form of Japanese, and was spared by the gates splitting open. 

A woman wearing an elaborate red kimono greeted Jesse, ushering him toward the gardens, away from the Shimada estate. She spoke in fast Japanese and left Jesse stupidly saying, “Uh, I don’t speak nihongo.” At least he knew Shimada could speak English. 

The woman rebounded without a second of delay, “Mr. Shimada will come in time. Please wait here. Complementaries will be brought.” She bowed to him and walked away, a sway to her step, the appearance of elegance oozing off her in waves. Was she some sort of servant? Jesse scolded himself for thinking so backwards, but then again, this was one of the oldest criminal empires out there. They were above law, and servitude-- slavery was not far down the ladder of drugs and murder. 

The urge to chew on a cigar filled his mouth and sent an itch down his hands, it took him effort to resist. While he was currently outside, underneath some elaborately carved gazebo, Jesse knew enough about Japan to be assured that smoking wasn’t really a positive thing. He did not want to fuck up this meeting. 

Instead, Jesse let his eyes wander. The gazebo was next to a gorgeous stream of water and a curved bridge sat above it, the old wood seemingly as solid as when it was first built. Plenty of flora was placed neatly around, sections of flowers in shapes, colors, and sizes he had never seen before. The massive, aged sakura trees were bare of the rosy leaves themselves, but they still flourished with bright green leaves, each spreading branch reaching out and around, as if to dominate the sky around it, to claim dominion over the earth as Shimada have claimed dominion over their territory. 

That was a little morbid. 

His mind trailed to the Shimadas themselves. He had been debriefed on their dealings, the clan specified in drug and weapon trafficking and had quite the masked grip in Japanese politics, they had been known for human trafficking but under the earlier rule of Sorijo. Hanzo Shimada had cut ties most those deals as soon as he came to lead. 

There wasn’t much known of the inner affairs of Shimada dealing. All that Jesse had known was Hanzo was a cold ruler, and had established his rule by killing his own brother. Jesse knew that these affairs were dirty and often bloody, but he couldn’t imagine harming a member of his family. Everyone’s life was different, though, and he kept in mind that he knew nothing of Hanzo’s situation. Still. A man that could kill his own brother was one to be wary of. 

Jesse had sat down by the time some complementaries came about, and he couldn’t help but stuffing his face. It was something around lunchtime and the poor breakfast he’d eaten had left him starved. He’d stopped only when he realized Hanzo Shimada was coming up to the gazebo. 

If he’d thought the woman’s kimono was elegant, it paled in comparison to Shimada’s. It was made out of fine silk with golden embroidery, simple, and yet screaming the status he held. His hair was done up and held together by… chopsticks, was the best Jesse could describe them as, but he knew that there was a difference between chopsticks and what held the Shimada’s hair up. 

Jesse had on his Sunday best and was feeling poorly underdressed by the time Shimada walked into the gazebo. It felt too small, now, with a man like Shimada managing to fill up the space by his presence alone. His hands twitched in uncertainty, habit telling him to extend his hand while his brain reminded him how that was uncouth. When Shimada offered a curt bow, Jesse did the same. 

“I welcome you to the Shimada castle,” Shimada spoke, sharp eyes resting on Jesse’s. He stared back without a thought. “I hope you have enjoyed the view of our gardens in the wait.” His voice was as firm and sharp as his face; the man appeared to be molded from stone, with vocal tones to match. Jesse quickly tried to regain his focus. 

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but something in the Shimada’s expression altered when he heard Jesse’s accent. It was such a small difference that McCree didn’t want to be seen as some creep for trying to analyze it, so he tore his eyes in favor of looking around. “I ain’t ever seen so much greenery in one place. I stick ta city life, mostly.” When Shimada sat, McCree sat, and he faked ease. No hand fidgeting, no leg bouncing, nothing. 

Shimada looked perfectly regal, head inclined up, hands folded at his lap, a sure set to his shoulders that reflected how he was prepared for anything. The lack of visible guards assured McCree that this guy could probably kill him with a flick of the wrist if he wanted to, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to do anything to test that. 

One thing about the Shimadas were their infatuation with dragons, and how, although it was carefully guarded, leaders of the clan had some sort of… _connection_ to dragons. It wasn’t something he wanted to look into at all, if it could be helped. 

“You work for Talon,” Shimada asked in a tone that was more a statement than it was an inquiry. 

“Yessirre,” McCree’s hand instinctively went up to adjust his hat, and he quickly hid it by scratching the back of his neck. Hanzo tracked his movements like a hawk. “Been with ‘em for several years now.” 

“And what is it that you want?” There was a certain… Hidden meaning underlying Hanzo’s words that McCree could not place a finger on. Perhaps the man already didn’t like Talon, and with the way that he tracked Jesse, did not trust him, either. To be fair, Jesse probably trusted Hanzo less. He’d already mapped out several ways to escape, if need be. 

“Well, we’re lookin’ for the same ol’ things any people want from ya. Trading deals, mostly weaponry. We can smuggle anything from the states an’ back. Hell, anywhere, really,” Hanzo was analyzing Jesse so carefully the man couldn’t help but flush slightly; he felt as if he were being sized up as cattle. Soon he’d be tagged and shipped off to some factory. Clearing his throat, Jesse continued, “We can draft a deal, and benefit each other mutually. Your empire expands, and Talon’s, too. We won’t bother your terf, either.” 

There was a bit of silence that made Jesse want to squirm yet he kept perfectly still. Lax enough to pass off for a man in the presence of a well-known acquaintance, a friend. With the way Hanzo looked at him, Jesse wished he’d brought his gun, but it was in his hotel room. Part of the agreement for this meeting was for Jesse to arrive unarmed. 

“You offer us expansion,” Hanzo mused out loud, and there was a gleam in his eye. “What sets you apart from the rest? There are plenty that come from America that claim the same.” 

“We have actual influence, that’s for sure,” Jesse retorted before internally cursing himself. No one should talk to Hanzo that way, least of all a man not even within the Shimada ranks. Talking like that could earn someone extra holes. Thankfully, the clan leader appeared unphased. “We have political influence, real political influence. Talon’s in league with some high-end societies that practically run American politics. Y’know, the puppeteers.”  
That seemed to garner some form of interest from Shimada’s stone face, an eyebrow cocking up. The expression faded as quickly as it came on but Jesse had caught it. Caught it and held it dearly close to him; it was a positive indicator. “What are the arrangements of this deal, Mr. McCree?” 

For a moment, he was confused, because how the hell did Shimada know his name if he had not given it? The confusion faded when he recalled exactly how detailed of a report they had to send to the Shimada clan for them to even think of accepting of someone into their estate.

They discussed the nitty gritty, and although Jesse was quite certain the deal was going better than good, that perhaps Reaper would be proud of him with this, Shimada’s eyes still bore into him. Analyzed him, drunk him in like a man dying of thirst with those dark eyes that revealed nothing. Jesse played it off that it did not bother him, in fact, he made sense of it. They were strangers yet, and in this line of work, strangers were untrustworthy. If Hanzo did not keep an eye on him, he could have a chance of doing something that could harm the other. 

“So… we talkin’ business, Shimada-san?” McCree finally asked, fingers tapping on his knee absentmindedly. He stopped it as soon as he realized. 

“Yes, I believe so. I trust you have all the documents for this,” the man replied, words curt and to the point, the accent his tongue rolled English in was absolutely divine. 

Uh. 

McCree ignored that last thought. 

“Yeah, I’ll have Talon send you all the details, signature-shit.” 

Then, out of the blue, Hanzo graced McCree with a smile. It was… friendly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those remained emotionless and cold and it set Jesse on edge. Reminded him of how expressionless Reaper’s mask was. “We must commemorate this agreement, as custom dictates. If you will,” and Hanzo stood, began to walk, expectant of Jesse to follow behind like a puppy. Wind swayed his kimono to the left and caused the sound of thousands of leaves to rustle, as if they were swept by rain. 

McCree stood and started to trail Hanzo, although uncertain, “Reckon yer talkin’ ‘bout food? I’m mighty starved.” As if on cue, his stomach growled, and he chuckled uncomfortably. No documents ever mentioned food to be shared, but he supposed not many outside of Japan made allies with the Shimada Clan. And he wasn’t complaining. 

“Food and drink. Traditionally it would be a feast, but I am pressed in time. I hope it is no inconvenience.” 

The ‘food’ Hanzo mentioned could have passed for a feast. They were in some comfortable dining hall, which had been relatively near the gazebo, seated on fluffy, gold embroidered cushions instead of chairs. There were several people that joined them as they had waited for the meal, and several servants that walked around handing drinks. Hanzo was seated at the end of the table, and Jesse was seated to the right of him. 

After the food had been served, and the people around the table had murmured itadakimasu, Jesse ate as neatly as he could. He was so used to raveging him meals, though, that it was hard. 

The possibility of Shimada having poisoned his food did occur to him, of course, but the meal had been served as a tradition for a successful deal, and Jesse feared if he denied it, that it would offend the Shimadas to the point of cancellation. And that could lead to a worse death than poisoning. He took his chances. 

The men around the table spoke loudly to one another in Japanese, excluding Jesse as they asked Hanzo something and laughed. Hanzo seemed to ignore it, though. The men around them were much older than them, white, balding hair struggling to stay onto their scalps, skin practically melting off of them as wrinkles. These men were ancient. 

He watched as Hanzo called over one of the servants, who bowed, left, and returned with golden wine glasses and an old bottle of wine. She handed the pre-filled glasses down to everyone, and Hanzo rose the cup up as cheers, “To a successful alliance.” The rest of them followed suit with muttered Japanese good-wills, at least Jesse hoped, and downed their cups. He lifted his cup, and, good naturedly, took a swig. The wine was aged to perfection and Jesse nodded to Hanzo approvingly, who offered a small tilt of his lips in return. 

Once he could eat no longer, he let out a sigh and sat back a little bit, then drank more of the wine, finishing the whole cup. Chatter had been taken over by the older men, leaving no pressure for Jesse to force conversation, thank God. Come to think of it, the lack of sleep was kicking in pretty hard, Jesse was getting tired. Holding a conversation would have sucked. “Compliments to the chef,” Jesse said. 

“They will be notified,” Shimada replied, taking his comment more seriously than he intended. At least it was a positive thing, though, the meal really had been delicious, despite how different it was from American cuisine. He’d be more than happy to compliment the chefs himself, if given the chance. 

By then, most of the men began to take their leave, and Jesse supposed he should start to do the same. 

Except, something felt a little… off. It had come on slowly, the feeling, but now it was increasing in intensity, and fast. Jesse could not feel himself, not his body. He was still coherent, to a fault. No matter how hard he tried to bring his attention to something, all he could really do was stare at the wall blankly. His body was heavy. Tired. God, why was he so tired? This wasn’t the cause of a restless night.

He hadn’t realized he was gripping onto the table for support until Hanzo asked, “Are you well, Mr. McCree?” The sound was distant, reverberating. McCree opened his mouth, tried to voice something, but nothing came out, like there was a block between his mouth and mind. Thoughts jumbled around uselessly in him, there was the feeling that he _should_ understand what was happening, that it was direly important. Nothing clicked. 

Was he dreaming? The world around him felt like it, that same drifting sensation one got when asleep, the same detachment. Muscle memory had him pinch his body, and although the action was delayed, he could feel none of it. Dream, then? 

Things moved along indistinctly, unrealized to him.

He was in a room, now. Jesse didn’t know where he was, what was happening. He was exhausted. So, so tired. Everything appeared as a blurred mess, and it came in intervals, and his lack of lucidity prevented him from even understanding it.

Shimada. Shimada looking at him. On the phone. Darkness. Shimada looking at him. 

Sleep. 

 

Morning light poured in from a large window and made McCree groan pathetically. It was too early to wake up. He felt like shit, god damn. What happened last night? How much did he drink? 

Jesse moved his hand up to wipe his face, only to hear a distinct rattling alongside his movement. It took a lot of effort to open his eyes even a fraction, and when he did, everything was a mess to his vision. Fuck. His breathing was labored, and he had to blink several times to clear up the fog. Where was he? 

When he looked at his hand, there was a handcuff, and a chain leading to a metallic chunk drilled to the sturdy ground. The chain was long enough for him to traverse the room, which was as large as his hotel. This room was nowhere near as comfortable looking as his hotel, though. It was bare, with the futon as his bed and a… Wastebasket, placed within his range of movement. His heart hammered in his chest and he had to take a second to breathe to keep from flipping out. 

Yesterday. What happened? 

The deal, with Shimada. The food. The wine. 

He snarled as pure anger flashed through him, white and hot. The wine. Of course it was the wine, why wouldn’t it have been?! He had been such an idiot, letting his guard down like that! And now he was their prisoner, and as an asset of Talon, would probably be used as blackmail. Goddammit. Another large fuck up. 

Jesse tried to stand up, the nausea rushed him made him sit back down. Lay down, actually.

This was bad. This was worse than bad. Reaper would want him dead. Reaper was probably going to kill him himself.

If these people didn’t kill him beforehand. 

What a fool he had been. 

He deserved whatever torture they were going to give him. 

Jesse wanted to curse and spit and bang his head against the wall, but he sure as hell didn’t want to throw up in that room and have to stay around it, so he opted to fidgeting his hands. Cracking his fingers again and again, even when he couldn’t crack them any longer, going through the motions of cracking even if it hurt. Nervousness worked itself into him. Anxiety gnawed at his very core, he was drowning in emotion after emotion.  
Hatred burned deep in him. Hatred for the deception. Hatred at his own mistakes. Hatred at himself. Sadness bit at the hatred, fear trampled that.

Hours crawled by, all Jesse could do was lay down and glare at the ceiling. Every move he made left him feeling like last night’s contents were going to color the ground. Some of the initial sickness subsided after several hours, but he pretty much felt a solid hungover. No water. Food. He was just glaring, thinking, exhausting his mind as much as his own body. 

How was Reaper going to murder him? Suffocation was too easy. He was going to break him, first. Psychologically. Break him all sorts of ways and tear his body apart while letting him live. Then kill him. Or maybe that was a bit too merciful. Leave him to die with the wounds, of dehydration or starvation or blood loss. Whatever worked first. 

The door slid open and Jesse perked up, only to lay his head gingerly back down with a soft sound of displeasure. Whoever it was, he hoped they were bringing him something to eat. Or iBuprofen. God, let it be iBuprofen.  
“Are you able to sit up?” The voice was familiar, and he frowned in pure disgust. Shimada was there, and when Jesse forced himself up with difficulty, he saw the man was carrying a large tray. He glared daggers at Shimada, hoping that maybe daggers would appear out of his eyes and slit the clan leader’s throat. The thought of Hanzo dead at least made him feel a tinge better. “Good,” Shimada walked forward with intent and purpose, the aura of superiority shining off him like rays from the sun. He set the tray down in front of McCree.

“What’re ya trynna do?” He all but growled, throat sore and scratchy as rocks from disuse and thirst. There was a fresh cup of water right in front of him, but Jesse was as stubborn as a mule and wasn’t about to reach for it. That was like admitting defeat. 

“I’m attempting to get you to eat,” Hanzo responded in kind, his cold eyes full of something different. They were full of soft care, how one would look at a pet. At that second, Jesse decided he wasn’t going to refer to the man formally. Only Hanzo. “You have been asleep for a full day--”

“And who’s fuckin’ fault’s that?” 

Hanzo shifted somewhat and managed to look completely unphased by Jesse’s heavy scrutiny. “Aiko put a dosage much too high, for that I apologize.” 

That statement confounded him and enraged him to a point where he wanted to just scream. He took to grinding his teeth instead. “I’mma ask again, Hanzo. What the hell do ya want from me?”

The clan leader didn’t even look frustrated by Jesse’s tone, which made him boil with something worse than anger. He wanted to get a rise out of this guy. Wanted him to be on the same level as enragement Jesse felt-- Hanzo had no right to be crouching there, looking like he was talking to some child. 

“Is it blackmail? Do ya wanna torture me for some Talon secrets?” He growled, his brown eyes almost darkening from the hate in them. 

Hanzo’s stoic face broke when he laughed, honest to God laughed, as if this was a funny joke between two friends. He shook his head, “You no longer belong to Talon, Jesse,” McCree would have punched him if that didn’t mean moving, “I drugged you so you could not run and purchased you. The one named Reaper wanted you to know that he sold you for cheaper than necessary. The alliance between Talon and Shimada is still in tact, and whatever secrets you harbor from them is certainly useless to me, unless it determines my clan.” 

Whatever emotion McCree had previously felt left him like it had been atop a trap door. Or, maybe he just drifted out of his body. It really did feel like he was now watching the scene unfold instead of participating in it. “No. Reaper wouldn’t…” Wouldn’t what? Leave him here? At the mercy of one of the most ruthless yakuza leaders? That sounded more like the man than coming to a failure of a soldier’s rescue. 

This was his punishment. 

For once, McCree wished that Reyes would have killed him, one of those times. 

“Why?” It was croaked, a quiet noise that reflected how defeated Jesse felt. He couldn’t hide it.

A look of pity crossed Hanzo’s features and he inched just a bit closer, a test, but McCree had no power in him to lunge at the other. He had been abandoned. Hanzo drew closer still. If Jesse wanted to, he could reach out and touch the man. “You are an exquisite specimen. And my duties have left me bored.” The implications that statement left would have chilled him in normal circumstances. All he felt was numbness, now. Numbness and nausea.  
“How do I know?” It didn’t feel like he was talking. Like his mouth was far, far away and he was watching through some screen. “How do I know y’ain’t lyin’ to me?” Was that him? He sounded so shaken. 

There was a silent moment when Hanzo reached into his kimono, produced a hand-held, black device the size of his palm. He clicked the center of it, and a bright light shot up vertically, then spread out horizontally. It was a holographic display of terms of his purchase. His own photo stared back at him with a smile, and at the end were the signatures. Signed by Reaper himself. Bile threatened to surge up at the sight and it was a miracle he didn’t openly spew his guts right on Hanzo. 

Jesse closed his eyes. There had been some quiet, underlying hope that Hanzo was lying and he would be rescued, if only to die another way. It had been ruthlessly crushed, its ashes disintegrated. 

He heard shuffling as Hanzo put the device back into his kimono. “Eat. Your food is getting cold,” Hanzo reprimanded without heat, pushing the tray a bit closer. He opened his eyes to glance at the food, and to Hanzo’s credit it looked good, a little attempt at an American breakfast, eggs bacon and sausages. 

Jesse’s hunger had left him entirely. He closed his eyes again. 

The urge to escape gnawed at him. What was the point, though? Hanzo had him, bought him, and if he were to get out, he didn’t even know where to go, who to go to, how to read or speak Japanese, didn’t have enough money to make his way around. He was stuck in a foreign prison. 

When Hanzo left, Jesse barely noticed. The meal grew cold, the water his throat so desperately yearned for condensated, became lukewarm. Time passed like a dream, one second there was daylight, and the next Jesse looked out of a darkened window. The night sky was starless, and a full moon stared him down as it rose up, the eye of God passing by. Judgement was finalized. 

A familiar sense of hopelessness washed over Jesse, filling his emptied chest with a heavy sensation that burned his heart. Just like him bowing down to Reaper, but worse. Jesse itched to get hurt. He covered his face in his hands and allowed himself to weep. 

 

Several days passed. Hanzo was the one to bring him food, breakfast, lunch, dinner. Jesse started to eat after he felt like he was going to die from lack of food and water… Actually, it was Hanzo that forced him to eat. Jesse wanted to die. Would have rather died than been some fucked up slave to the Shimada leader. 

The clan leader had a strict cycle. Bring in breakfast, leave Jesse to eat, bring in lunch while taking the tray from breakfast, leave him to eat, then bring in dinner and wait until he finished to take both trays. What possessed the yakuza leader to be the one that brought him food was beyond Jesse at this point. 

Strangest thing was that he started to look forward for Hanzo. It wasn’t for the man, no, and the feeling came on without him being aware of it. Hanzo brought him meals, and those he ate while he spoke to McCree of this and that. Said things in Japanese that fell deaf to his ears. Whenever he heard the door open, he knew it was Hanzo, knew he wasn’t going to be harmed and despite how that left him feeling particularly worse. His own body unwillingly accepted Hanzo as a positive figure; after all, the man gave him sustenance. Company. 

Whenever Hanzo spoke to him, he never replied, never even gave the clan leader the pleasure of seeing his emotions. If there even was a way to show how empty he was inside.  
Each day Hanzo came in Jesse anticipated the worst; this would be the day he was going to do something. The day that Jesse would realize what being a ‘specimen’ truly meant. But each time he left without touching Jesse, without his piercing eyes trailing all about him. He began to have the sense that Hanzo felt inclined to care for him, like a dog. The thought set fire to his cheeks and he bit his tongue to feel something other than the growing numbness. 

Jesse was not a dog. 

And yet he had been sold like one. 

On a certain day, Jesse had not cared for keeping track, if he were to have guessed it was probably a week in, a thin woman had come in and placed a large, wooden wash bin next to his wastebasket, and picked up his excrement basket. Jesse felt a drop of disappointment when it wasn’t Hanzo, then felt completely disgusted by himself upon the realization. Still, he inched toward the bin and the servant left without a word, or even the impression that what was saw wasn’t remotely fucked up. 

In all honesty, this was probably one of the more mundane things that servant had probably dealt with. 

Jesse kneeled in front of the wash bin and looked into the sparkling, steamy water; the reflection that met him was not himself. His beard was unkempt, hair greasy and oiled, eyes void of the usual warmth. 

A ghost had stared at him and all he did was grunt, then wash his hands, hair and face. This was existence, now. Kept like an animal in a cell too small to run in, but boy did McCree walk. Counted his steps when he paced, went back and forth along the walls, a caged animal unused to the lack of mobility. Lack of entertainment. He paced and paced and paced to only pause when Hanzo brought him food, or when that thin, sharp-cheeked servant changed his wastebasket. 

Boredom became a heavy burden along all else, and the best way he could solve it was by focusing on his breath, making up stupid exercises to keep his mind running, and sleeping. None of them worked.  
Dreams, when he could sleep, were of his cell. 

Those were bad dreams. Dreams that kept him up and shook him to the core. He could not decipher whether he was awake or asleep. It was only fortune that his usual nightmares did not berate him. The other dreams often consisted of himself out of the forsaken room and living some wild life of freedom, only to wake up and piss into a goddamn bucket. 

It wasn’t long until Jesse started to mutilate himself. Pinching, at first. When the rush of pain made him feel something other than empty anxiety, he went further; his nails broke skin, his teeth left marks. He took to punishing himself, instead of waiting for someone else to do it. 

The first time that Hanzo touched him was the day after Jesse had littered his arm with bites and claw marks. 

Jesse was too tired to pace, having kept himself up all night with the rush of self harm, so he sat against the wall underneath the large window, chewing the inside of his cheeks while cracking his fingers. Going through the motions of cracking them even though there was nothing. It was soon time for Hanzo to bring him his meal. 

There wasn’t a lot of blood on his arms, there were bruises and thin layers of scabs that began to harden. He started to pick at the scabs absentmindedly when Hanzo came in, set down the food. Jesse tried very hard to ignore him. 

“Jesse,” Hanzo’s voice did not sound pleased, which was a first. McCree spared the other man a glance. He was wearing a cotton yukata, looking more than comfortable, hues of blues and yellows dancing across the surface of the outfit, his hair done up in a ponytail. “What have you done to yourself?” The clan leader crouched in front of Jesse, reached out for one of his hands. Jesse flinched away, or tried to, but Hanzo’s grip was firm. He inspected the mutilation with a displeased frown. 

He found himself grinding his teeth as a wave of anxiety filled him. This was the first time Hanzo was displeased by him. Would it mean something? Less food? Less visits? Jesse was sure he’d go absolutely mad if Hanzo didn’t at least disrupt the crushing boredom every day. Just the thought of being alone in there, without some sort of difference, made the hairs on the back of his neck stick up. Even if said difference was the man that made this happen in the first place. 

When McCree offered nothing, not even a grunt, Hanzo sighed. “I take it you want something to do.” That made him look at Hanzo in the eye, the other man rose a questioning brow. He still held onto Jesse’s hand. Part of Jesse wanted more, needed something more than the empty room. “Well?” 

“Fuck you,” McCree replied, his voice cracking as protest from long disuse. He looked away and ground his teeth. Hanzo knew. He was doing this on purpose. He had tortured more men than Jesse probably ever had and he knew exactly what Jesse was going through, exactly how isolation twisted a man.

A gentle, albeit firm hand grabbed onto McCree’s chin and forced him to look back at the other man. Some inner part of Jesse yearned to lean into the warmth, to remember how long its had been since he’d had physical contact with anyone, but he steeled himself. Despite having been sold, despite having accepted his fate, he wasn’t going to allow himself to fall into some fucking stockholm syndrome. 

“You have been good, so far,” Hanzo mused, his charcoal eyes sweeping over McCree’s face in a way that could only be described as admiration. His hands were baby soft. “Perhaps I can have some form of entertainment brought in. A book, maybe.” 

He scoffed and tried to pry his face from Hanzo’s hands, but he might as well have been trying to tear his arm away from a bear trap. 

“What is it that you want?” The yakuza leader asked and his voice was so gentle and full of warmth, no longer hard as iron. It was almost pleading, wanting to make Jesse comfortable, to care for him.  
Plenty of things popped in him mind to say, like a TV, some books, something to write on. What he did say, he said with steady conviction, his brown eyes glowering. “I want to… leave this room.” He tugged at the chain that kept him in this room, metallic chattering following suit. Swallowing thickly to soothe his throat, he said, “I want to get out.”

It was an honest surprise how expressive Hanzo was being-- he pursed his lip in thought, a look that framed his sharp features. Then, in a low voice, a voice Jesse regretted to admit sent shivers down his back, “That can be done, Jesse. You just have to show me how obedient you are.” Hanzo’s lips twisted up a fraction, the expression subtle and yet Jesse could feel the other man’s contempt at his own words. The sick bastard was enjoying every second of this. 

“Stop makin’ me _wait_ , then!” McCree surprised himself by barking out, “if yer gonna _do_ somethin’ then _do_ it.” It appeared that his concession, his frustrated willingness, initiated what was to be the standard of Jesse’s new life. With renowned uncertainty, Jesse held his breath and watched as Hanzo drew closer, watched as the man’s dark irises flickered from his eyes to his mouth. 

Disgust and anticipation burst from his chest, and he sickened himself by wanting this. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t _pain_ and yet it was _something_ and Hanzo was hot and-- 

A hand settled itself on his thigh, another on his chest, and a pair of plump lips pushed against his own. He could feel the Shimada’s knees between his legs, just near enough to tickle something inside him. Hanzo’s hands were gentle and electrified the skin underneath his clothes, sent phantom touches all throughout his body. The reminder of Reaper’s punishments made a part of him tense up, part of him prepare for what often came with hands on him, and Hanzo managed to dismiss it all by how careful he was.

Conflictions tore through him, he wanted to push Hanzo off and bring him closer at the same time, wanted to laugh and cry, wanted to drift off into that hardly lucid state he’d become accustomed to and wanted to be hyper aware of every second. Except none of that happened, he sat there, urge and want, repulsion and hatred tugging at his insides, until it spewed forward and forced him to kiss back. Allowed Hanzo to take his soul by how urgent it became, tongue and tooth, felt heat pool into him and shame brighten his face. 

Blame pointed at the tactics Hanzo had used, blame direct toward himself, blame was even thrown at Reaper in a blinded fit. Yet, when a sly hand dragged itself from his leg to his crotch, blame dissolved into hot lust.  
God. No one had gone near him for too long. He could feel himself slipping, dropping all tensions, opening himself up for whatever Hanzo had in store. Things shifted quickly, instead of being kissed, Jesse’s neck was being ravaged, and the hand on his crotch massaged him in a way that made him shamelessly moan. Heat and anticipation and need flashed up and down him, all he could think about was what led him to that moment, and all he could feel was stark pleasure. 

Jesse moved his hands to grip onto the man’s waist, but the second his hands fell on Hanzo, the man stopped his movements all together. His gut twisted and a whine threatened to leave him. All Jesse could do was muster in a shaky tone, “W-what?” 

Hanzo pulled away some, to look at Jesse in the eye, his own hands moving from his body and onto McCree’s hands, promptly tearing them away. “Do not touch me, McCree. If you touch me, I will leave.” In his carefully built haze of lust, Jesse could give less of a fuck what the conditions were. Desire burned his skin and flushed his face, so he nodded, obediently, a pleading expression in his eyes. 

Soon enough Hanzo had undone Jesse’s pants and stroked his aching cock with expertise, then went down and sucked him off in such a manner that Jesse was near sobbing Hanzo’s name when he climaxed. Hanzo swallowed him down without so much as a change in expression. The entire time Jesse’s hands were squeezing themselves uselessly on his own shirt, opening and closing as pleasure spiked. When the orgasmic haze managed to subside, McCree felt sick to his stomach. 

What was done could not be undone and he’d sealed his fate. 

After that day, physical contact came often. It wasn’t always sexual, Hanzo would put his hands on Jesse, his hair, his shoulders, his face. And when it was sexual, it was damn fun; Hanzo had a way with his hands and mouth and Jesse loved to make his owner moan out when he was allowed to. It never went past hand and blow jobs, not yet, and when Jesse pleased Hanzo well enough, or did something that he asked Jesse to do, he would get called a good boy. Would get praises aplenty. 

Bottom line was that Hanzo spent more time with him than he had before and… It was nice. Hanzo wasn’t entirely pushy with what he did, and Jesse started to relax around the man. Talk to him, laugh with him, tease him, lean into his soft hands, close his eyes when Hanzo played with his hair. He hated his room, yes, and he hated being chained up more, but Hanzo was paying special attention to him. Doing away with his boredom that had been such a hinderance before. 

Not to mention how his owner began to bring him things to further occupy his time, books and devices aplenty. Granted, the devices were gaming consoles and in no way could they recieve or send information. Still, they left him spending less time contemplating his predicament too much. Allowed him to sate some of his anxiety. 

An inner voice screamed how this was wrong, and he turned a blind eye.

McCree decided that honestly, Hanzo wasn’t that bad. After all, he’d heard horror stories with human trafficking, owners being relentless and cruel, sadistic, even doing snuff films shit to those they bought. Hanzo treated him kindly, gave him things, spent time with him. Hell, Hanzo was ten times nicer than Reaper ever was. 

That was when he rebounded. Began to instigate the touches, the heated make-out sessions, eased up enough to feel half-normal. Of course, being chained up and stuck in a room for God-knew-how-long removed plenty ability of normality, however he could say that he wasn’t hating his imprisonment as much as he had been. 

Even his dreams had relented in their intensity, and Jesse could sleep a little sounder at night. 

Until Hanzo came in on lunchtime, told Jesse that he had an overseas meeting the following week and that he wasn’t going to be able to interact with him. Which… Was fine, he did his best to smile it off and roped Hanzo into a nice kiss. 

That week had been terrible. Jesse tried to keep track of the days, but ended up anticipating Hanzo’s arrival sooner than not, only to have a bitter sense of disappointment he scolded himself for. The servant that brought him food was a young-looking man that didn’t even offer him a smile, no conversation. The games he had grew boring and the books he re-read again and again until he could recite them. 

The anxiety that had been sated was back. But this time it was for his… owner. Lover. Whatever Hanzo was in relation to him-- McCree needed him. He was the only good thing about being there. 

When Hanzo had returned, Jesse was unafraid to squeeze him close until the other barked out that he couldn’t breathe. Protested Hanzo leaving and hugged him until he was supposed to bring lunch, which they had shared. 

And it was then when Hanzo considered him obedient. 

 

On another indistinct morning, the sun was particularly bright that day, its shining rays rousing him in the midst of a pleasant dream. He yawned and stretched, hearing several bones cracking all at once, sighed lightly and settled himself back into the futon. He didn’t know what set this day apart from the rest, but Jesse could sense there was something different that day. Either it was the birds chirping louder or the sun shining brighter, he couldn’t tell. 

Breakfast came only minutes after he woke up and a smiling Hanzo made his heart jump in his chest. He stooped down to place the tray near Jesse, “I have good news for you, my pet,” the nickname made Jesse furrow his brows but he chose not to comment, “You have shown your obedience quiet well. I will release you.” 

“Forreal?” There was a twinge of disbelief in McCree’s tone, “Like, I’ll be able to get the hell outta here?” 

“Not of the estate,” Hanzo touched Jesse’s face gently, McCree brought up a hand to rest Hanzo’s. “But you will be able to venture around, and do what pleases you. Though, I do think we will spend most time in my room.”  
There was a mix of emotions that left him; one, he was excited to get out. The room had become a little less unpleasant by Hanzo’s attention, but it was still so barren, and he was sick of smelling his own shit. Two, Jesse was in desperate need of a shower. The wash bin could only do so much to keep him clean and Jesse was beginning to feel dirty in places he hadn’t even known. Three, his clothes were dirty as fuck. He needed to change. Those weren’t exactly emotions, but with the way they clung to his mind and stuck in his gut, he associated them as such. 

That was why, when Hanzo had unlocked the cuff that had held him hostage for so long with a key produced from his kimono, he had completely ignored breakfast and asked Hanzo if he could shower first. Begged him, practically. Tried to muster all that Southern charm that Hanzo seemed so particularly fond of for it. 

Hanzo took hold of his hand, the one that had been stuck to the chain, and led Jesse out of the door. The first few steps outside of his door was… Odd, to say the least. Those barren walls he’d been so used to were replaced with decorated ones, full of art, dragons, paintings of ravenous wolves on the hunt and dying men at the hands of battle. In any other circumstance, McCree would have found them morbid. Now, though, he looked upon them with utmost respect and infatuation. They were not blank. 

Being stuck in a barren room for so long made McCree appreciate all the decorations within the Shimada castle ten times more. The floor, the walls, even the ceiling. Appreciated the windows and sometimes, the glances into the gardens. 

It struck him when Hanzo led him around the Shimada castle that he could make his escape. Right now, if he wanted to, it was early enough and not many servants were around, and sure the hallways were confusing and it would take skill to get past everyone, but the possibility of escape fell upon him harder than anything else. 

Like a lovesick dog, though, Jesse decided against it, following the yakuza leader’s every step. He walked hand-in-hand with Hanzo up until he found himself walking into a large bathroom, half of it taken up by a massive tub. It looked more like a Jacuzzi than something fit for bathing in.

Too busy ogling at the tub, Jesse blinked in surprise when Shimada spoke. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered, already beginning to disrobe himself. A flush of red flashed across Jesse’s cheeks but he took off his clothes anyway; Hanzo had seen his dick plenty, and he Hanzo’s. Seeing each other completely naked would be no different. Besides, Japanese people weren’t so finicky about nudity as Americans were. 

It didn’t stop him from appreciating his owner’s body. The man was sculpted from stonework, muscles impossibly defined, a bright tattoo crawling up his arm that made him delectable, every inch of him the definition of peak perfection. Jesse wasn’t a couch potato by any means and he had no qualms about his body, but he definitely wasn’t as defined. 

“Anyone ever told ya how gorgeous you are?” Jesse questioned, crowding closer to the other man. He was taller than Hanzo but the man’s piercing glare made him feel impossibly shorter.  
“Has anyone told you that you flatter too much?” 

“Aw, I can’t help it, hon. I mean, you bought me n’ all, would much rather try n’ enjoy the fact that I wasn’ bought by a fat baldin’ asshole. Yer like some sorta god,” Jesse reached out to touch Hanzo and his hands were quickly swatted away. 

If he wasn’t mistaking, Hanzo was _blushing_. “Get in the tub.” 

“Alrighty, _sir_ ,” Jesse grinned, turning on his heel to enter the massive bathtub. It was honestly the biggest he had ever seen. Good moods came from a clean body, and he was in the best mood at just the prospect of cleanliness. Couldn’t help being a little flirty. 

Hanzo fiddled with some nobs until a steady stream of warm, borderline hot, water came out of a faucet adjacent to him. The perfect temperature to get Jesse sighing in content. As the basin began to fill up, Hanzo got inside and sat as close as he could to the other man. They enjoyed their quiet company, with Hanzo’s hands on Jesse’s lap, watching as steam began to rise up. 

“I think I have made a good choice,” Hanzo hummed positively, the water now reaching Jesse’s hips. McCree threw the other man a questioning gaze. “With you, I mean. I consider you… Exceptional,” it was a compliment, Jesse was quite certain. 

“Shucks, honey, keep butterin’ me up n’ we might be gettin’ dirty in this,” he was grinning brightly, and it didn’t relent with how Hanzo’s gaze flickered to his lips. In fact, his expression transformed into a sly one. “Unless tha’s what you were plannin’.” 

A familiar heat already started to pool when Hanzo shimmied in the water and positioned himself right in front of Jesse. He forced himself onto Jesse’s lap and dropped his head onto his shoulder. “Stop that, I am trying to be honest.” 

“Honest ‘bout what?”

“My feelings,” Hanzo replied and the mild irritation in his voice made him huff. It was cute. “I like you. You are funny, and odd, and sexy,” Shimada’s hands were on Jesse’s chest, toying with his nipples. It felt damn good. “I think…” Hanzo’s hand migrated lower and lower, and it was difficult to focus on both him and the anticipation in Jesse’s gut. “... I want you to be mine. Fully.” 

“What’cha mean?” Jesse’s voice was huskier than he intended, and it pleased him to no end to see the slight shiver when Hanzo heard him. 

“I want you, Jesse,” now Shimada was speaking in between biting his neck, and his hand was gently taking hold of Jesse’s erection. “I want to claim you.”

And by claiming, Hanzo meant.... “Oh, darlin’, I, uh,” despite the hand slowly pumping his dick and the other still twisting his nipple, Jesse still managed to sound… Hesitant. “I ain’t a sub.” 

The touching did not slow, in fact, it grew more eager. Hanzo’s biting became a bit harsher than he liked. The water reached its set limit and the flow cut off by itself, leaving them in a steaming pot of water that encased their bodies. “Do this for me, Jesse,” he pulled off his neck and stared at Jesse in the eye, cheeks flushed from heat an arousal, pleading eyes staring half-lidded. “I have done so much for you.” 

Jesse moaned at how precise the movements of Hanzo’s hands were, for a pleasure-clouded second he was so inclined to agree. But he really wasn’t into the sub-stuff. He’d never even taken it behind and had never felt the urge to. 

It was hard to say no, though. Hanzo was right… He had done so much for Jesse. 

The hand on his nipple abandoned it and traveled much lower, making him tense. “Uh-- I just, I ain’t real comfortable with that, Han.” Unwillingly, his hips jutted forward and a whimpering moan left him at how fucking good the hand sensually pumping his erection felt. Jesse placed his hands on Hanzo’s shoulders, an indicator that he really did not want the whole fingers up his butt stuff. 

And then he was cursing when Hanzo squeezed his dick much harsher than necessary. “Goddammit, that shit hurts, Hanzo! Stop!” 

“I like you, Jesse,” Hanzo murmured, relenting some of the pressure but still pumping his dick. It was a threat, now. “But you are also my property. I will do as I please with you, because you are my pet. I own you.” 

Jesse’s heart was hammering in his chest and confusion racked his brain. Hanzo was nice, yeah. Hanzo was better than nice. But that was because he was obeying. Jesse had yet to really disobey. With a squeeze of his heart, Jesse realized that this was Reaper all over again. His heart kept beating. Faster. Faster, still. He had to obey-- if he didn’t, he’d be fucked. So fucked. Hanzo would do something to him-- hurt him, like he deserved, punish him like Reaper had done. 

When Hanzo didn’t hear protest from the other man, he massaged Jesse’s hole open with his fingers, which Jesse _loathed_. It felt too intrusive and he was no longer enjoying the situation as he had been before, but he kept quiet. 

A survival tactic. 

Soon enough, Hanzo was positioning himself, and Jesse had to endure a painful, painful beginning, where he could not resist the pleads of stop. It felt like he was being torn. Hanzo ignored it. He was harsh. Jutting his hips into McCree like he was made for it, despite clearly lacking experience. Moaning how good Jesse felt, how good he was being, and once he started touching Jesse’s dick, McCree started to moan, too.

But he was far gone. Experiencing it, and not. Watching the scene unfold. Like a dream.

The sun had shone too brightly that day. 

 

Despite that, Hanzo was still a nice person, if Jesse kept in line. Allowed Jesse to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, as long as it was in the castle. Gave him gifts, made up for the harsh treatment, took care of him. 

Called him his pet. 

It was a good life, if one didn’t look at the nitty gritty. Sure, he would never see his friends again, would never go out again, and had to look at the same castle walls, the same people, for the rest of his life, but. 

At least he was treated well. 

Days seemed to roll in on each other, repeats of the same thing, actions, people, books, showers. Same walls, same gardens, same owner. McCree had tried, for a while, to talk to some servants, so at least he wouldn’t be only being around Hanzo, but no one seemed willing to want to know a gaijin. At least they were polite, the ones who could speak English, but they never wanted to talk, not in the way their tight smiles kept the conversation stagnant and the way they were quick to end the conversation.

The only one who really did care for him was Hanzo, and even then, things were becoming… sour. There were more demands that Hanzo made, he wasn’t happy with just fucking Jesse. He needed to change things-- make him put on a collar, make him get on his knees, make him speak. Humiliate him. 

Then Hanzo would redeem himself by treating Jesse well, buying him trinkets and books and toys and things.

It stopped working after a while. Jesse kept up as best he could, but everyday it was all the same. No more pleasure could be derived. Jesse’s fate was eye-candy, a statement in the terms of power, he was a prop for Hanzo to scratch his urges with. Hanzo was using him for sex, which was what he had been bought for, and Jesse was just… realizing it. Realizing his stupidity for thinking that maybe Hanzo was… going to like him, release him from the status of “purchased slave” to human being.

Days drifted on, weeks, months. Insomnia had caught up with him and ruined his sleeping schedule, blended the hours, made differentiating existence impossible.

Jesse was stuck in a life unwanted, stuck in the drifting emptiness, knowing that throughout it all, he could recede into his mind and convince himself it was fantasy. A dream, one that was inescapable. Whatever would happen if he were to awaken was yet to be determined, but Jesse knew that one day, one day he would open his eyes and existence would be the shadow’s proprietor. The veil’s end, and the fresh beginning.


	2. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY so... phew, alright. this one is less sexual and more??? i dunno, I just wrote for like two days straight and ignored all my hw... so I hope you guys enjoy this one. i put a lotta effort!  
> my girlfriend help a lot with this one so ! ye!!  
> anywho... le's get jiggy with it

A darkness surrounded him, suffocated him entirely, confounded his senses. Up and down, left and right was one and the same, a nauseating sensation and yet in this state, he was too detached to be affected. There was no ground and the odd, unsettling feeling of complete weightlessness twisted his gut. This was a constant, he knew, and yet he did not know. This was the place he frequented, and yet each time he reawoke to its emptiness he had no idea where he was. 

There was the dim impression that even if he were to turn on some sort of light, it would be swallowed by the blackness. It was so opaque that there was no difference between his eyes being open or closed. Time bore on without any semblance of passage. He drifted, muddled thoughts running over where he was. Who he was. What was going on. It was hard to think when the darkness felt like it was trying to press into your very soul. 

Far beyond him, in the space that was all too familiar and not, there was a bright white speck, as small as the tip of a needle, so far off that he assumed it was a trick to his eyes. Several blinks later and the dot was still ever present and he was able to block the dot with his hand. There was a vast distance between himself and the speck but the hope to leave this empty space filled him to the core. 

He focused on it with all his intent, focusing in on the one thing that separated nothing from everything. In a matter of mere seconds the speck expanded from a needle’s point to the size of the sun, and for a blinding moment, he was being enshrouded by brilliant white light. This change, he accepted without much thought. 

This was a dream. 

The thought didn’t appear outright, but in his heart, he knew that was the case. Yet even baring the knowledge, it didn’t make the scene before him any easier to withstand. 

_“You bring shame to us, Genji,”_ Hanzo’s mouth moved on its own accord, voice hard as iron and his body rigid. In his hands was a long, sharp sword stained with the moonlight that poured through a window of the estate. His fingers wound so tightly against the hilt of the sword that it hurt, it was a pain he could barely feel.

The sword thirsted for blood, Hanzo could only describe it as the thirst of a man dehydrated to the point of death. The katana was pointed directly at Shimada Genji, his blood brother, and the one whom he’d been ordered to kill.

Wild green hair sat atop Genji’s head and on his person, a white shirt with grey, baggy sweatpants. Clothes that didn’t indicate he was of a pure lineage, one of the few destined to the vessels of dragons. Clothes that put shame to the name Shimada. Despite how lax the look was, Genji was anything but. His brown eyes were zapped of their warmth as they studied Hanzo, that stabbing gaze felt like it saw past every inch of him. Genji’s body was visibly tense; shoulders hunched up, legs poised in a way that said he was ready to flee at a moment’s notice. 

_“You cannot be serious, Hanzo. I will not fight you,”_ Genji shook his head and took a step back. Hanzo matched it with a step forward of his own. His brother’s expression grew mad, like that of a cornered animal. _“What is wrong with you, Hanzo?! You are my brother! Are you going to kill your own brother for-- for elders?!”_

_“Under Sojiro Kumicho, you were left to taint the Shimada name. Now that he has gone, I intend to rectify this, Genji. The only way is to--”_

There was visible fear in Genji, yes, but vibrant anger appeared to stomp it. He stepped forward and barked out, _“Fuck you, brother, you have always been like this! Listening to what they tell you as if they were kami! I am your own brother! Your blood! I know you more than you know yourself-- you do not want to do this and you do not have to!”_ There was an edge to his voice, a hidden, terrified edge that sounded like he was ready to snap into hysteria. Hanzo almost felt pity. Almost. The decision was done, it was beyond him and he was to carry it out no matter what-- that was one of the penalties of being the kumicho to the clan. Outright loyalty, and doing what was best to protect the family, no matter what initial qualms Hanzo had. Genji had broken that loyalty, so in the eyes of the clan and his own eyes, he was no longer a member of the clan and knew too much to be trusted. He was to be killed not only for his treason but to set an example for the rest of the members. It was simply a logical step. 

_“Enough!”_ Hanzo all but snarled, all his composure falling apart. Just like that. The years he’d spent schooling himself and learning how to feign apathy snapped away, all that was left was a raw anger. An anger that felt so misplaced in the face of his victim. The rise seemed to mollify something in Genji as if he’d hoped that Hanzo wouldn’t remain so stoic. It made Hanzo see red. _“You are useless to us, and have avoided listening to us for far too long! I am putting an end to this!”_

It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

The thirst that struck him from the sword-- he knew what it was now. That bloodlust, the curling anger and low rumble that danced in his ears, it wasn’t an inanimate object. It was the will of his dragons. They cared little for who died, they barely saw blood-relations as a matter to stop the hunt. Life was life, and life was food. They were starved too long to be denied their feast.

A brilliant blue hue overtook the moonlight shine on the sword, it emitted a flare like a fire that danced in earnest. Hanzo’s flesh was icy hot, all his senses heightened tenfold. Instead of being able to see Genji’s fear, he was able to smell it, to see the droplet of sweat that dribbled down his face. Hanzo could see each individual crack on the ground and scent the flowers right outside. The dragons were twisting under his flesh, eager to let themselves completely out, burning his veins in the familiar, aching way. Release; it was needed. He’d die if they were not released at that instant. 

Genji’s mouth was moving, and Hanzo was sure it was a form of protest, but he couldn’t hear anything. Not distinctly. The world around him was muffled as if he’d dropped into a body of water. It helped in stalking forward, and it definitely helped not to hear Genji crying in protest. 

His brother dashed away from the dojo. Or, tried to, but Hanzo caught up to him right outside of the large doors. Genji attempted to scale the wall and run but didn’t get very far.

The moon was up, watching the scene unfold with bated curiosity. Their only audience. 

The first stab pinned Genji against a wall, sword gouging into his side. It may as well have been the final cut. That light that had danced on Hanzo’s sword and tattoo transformed into menacing maws, and in turn, his dragons released themselves onto their prey, burning flesh, swallowing down their meal’s essence. Lifeblood. It was almost disgusting that Hanzo felt bliss unlike anything before. Not in the perverse sense; he was simply devouring a soul that was practically as strong as his. It was like a druggie finally getting his fix. A meal this well would sate his dragon’s hunger for weeks to come. 

Sound came back in the most unfortunate time. Genji gasped and cursed, screamed in a way that made Hanzo shiver, one hand’s nails scraped against the rough walls in some feeble attempt for the burn to end while the other held onto Hanzo’s sword in a futile attempt to push it off. The blade only cut into his palm. Blood oozed freely, crawling up Genji’s white shirt, feeding into Hanzo’s urge for gore. Hanzo’s urge… 

The sword was ejected and Hanzo along with it, both forced back several feet. Even in surprise, Hanzo did not lose his footing, and he readjusted his grip to glower at his younger brother. A green hue encompassed his body. All the essence that his dragons had been getting drunk on had been sucked right back into Genji. Hanzo’s dragons roared loud enough to render him deaf, urging for death, demanding their meal be finished. Again, blue overtook him, and the world grew quiet, while his scent and vision sharpened to an inhumane level. 

A stupid, impulsive fool Genji always had been. Without a proper instrument to transfer energy, his brother’s own dragon would burn him up to a crisp, worse than anything Hanzo could have inflicted. And yet, with renown vigor, Genji dashed forward, yelling something indistinct and wild, a senseless battle cry for one’s life. Hanzo just barely brought his sword up to defend himself.

Genji dodged the sword with ease and slammed a hard, blinding punch to Hanzo’s jaw. It was a stupid mistake, leaving himself so open to something as defensible as a punch. But he couldn’t help it; watching his own brother kill himself as an attempt to fight back was rather… Morbid. Distracting. 

No excuses. 

Hanzo staggered back a few steps, shook clear his head from the pain, clamped his jaw shut and then lunged forward with his sword, going over motions practiced time and time again. It was a surprise that Genji evaded each lunge, each strike, even managed to land several solid blows to Hanzo’s face, sides, legs. Danced around Hanzo like they were playing a game and not fighting to kill. Even as blood dripped from his wound, even as the pained expression began to overcome the determined one, Genji fought with vigor.  
A shame that didn’t last long. 

Hanzo caught Genji’s right side with a deep slice, and his brother dropped to his knees, cursing wildly, gripping at the now gaping wound. Blood loss was inevitable, now, and add exertion onto the list. The green hue fell away as if nothing. That was a mild surprise. Dragons never receded, not when they craved blood. 

_“You should have listened to us,”_ Hanzo’s voice was so distant, and yet solid. The iron voice of a leader. The voice of one that would take great lengths to ensure a better future. _“You have brought this upon yourself.”_

 _“I-- I would have rather died,”_ a brief, pained laugh left Genji, _“I am dying, rather than have lived a-- a second more like you.”_ Genji seethed, crumpled to the ground, fisted the dirt underneath his hands while letting out pained curses. _“I am going to… to be liberated. You--, b-brother, you are trapped.”_ His chest heaved with great effort, and the blood was now pooling to the earth underneath; it drank his offering with greed. They had wandered somewhere near the gardens in this fight, a place that Hanzo found wholly ironic. 

It was the gardens where their mother, Haruhi Shimada, had Genji, after being unable to rush to her room with the servants. It was here where his brother had killed him.  
Silence overcame all else. Not muffled, like before. It was an utter stillness, a complete lack of sound, a vacuum. Genji was breathing and that was it. He had stopped fidgeting, had lost all the will that had invigorated him earlier. Hanzo could not bear to see his brother at the brink of life, of death, an animal suffering, so he plunged his sword down onto him. Twice. Three times. It was some morbid and repressed emotion that made him do it, made him scream, made him stab until he grew sore. 

Dreaming. 

Hanzo killed his brother, his blood, the man he’d watched grow up. The time they held each other’s secrets and stole each other’s journals, the time they talked about their sexuality together in secret, all those times they snuck into the kitchens at night to steal sweets, the other where they had promised one another never to abandon one another when they were six and nine years old because no one else in the family would ever care for them-- those were solely his memories, now. The only other one possessing them had perished under his own hand. 

Raw emotion ripped into him with the strength of an ox. Nothing had prepared him for this, not when his father forced to look at the dead, not when he first killed someone, not even killing _many_ people to feed his urges. This was his brother. The one person that truly had understood him unlike anyone else. 

Dream. A dream. This was a dream. It hurt him so fiercely, how could this possibly be a dream?

Grief enveloped his very being. 

 

Hanzo awoke sputtering for breath, Genji’s name caught in his throat, a blackness encompassing him like a thick blanket. It wasn’t the abysmal one that had him before, but one that prevented him from distinguishing colors, or most shapes. Too dark, but not dark enough for him to be entirely senseless. This was his room.

He wiped his face, trying to shake off the feelings that were hammered down into him, or at least calm his racing heart. Bile felt like it was threatening to come up. The dream’s contents were seared fresh in his mind. 

Except, it hadn’t been a dream. It was a memory. A memory Hanzo loathed more than he loathed himself. Usually, when dreams drew that memory, they hadn’t been so vivid. This one had been a fucking revival of the moment itself. The day he had killed his own kin. Committed parricide. A reminder of Hanzo’s shame and dedication as the kumicho to the Shimadas.

Whatever time it was, Hanzo didn’t care, nor did he want to try and sleep again. A dream like that would only return and would make any more sleep virtually impossible. He found solace in being awake so that the searing memories in his mind could be pushed back, far into the recesses of his mind. That kind of repressing wasn’t gifted to him by his subconscious, the one thing that made sleeping a literal hell. 

In the dark, he fumbled with shaking hands to straighten his yukata and stand up, managing to maneuver around a small table to turn on the lights. A blinding moment passed before he dully glanced around his room.

For a man bathing in wealth, there wasn’t a lot of indication that he was anything but a commoner. Not in his room. The walls were simple and bare, the old tatami mat scuffed up here and there from generations of use, there was a simple table with a comfortable pillow to sit on next to it and on top of that, baggies of _ocha_ neatly placed on a small dish and a tea maker right beside it. His futon, the most colorful thing there with white flowers in the foreground with shades of light red behind it, was crumpled from recent sleep. A part of the wall to the far right was indented and hanging within it, a scroll with eloquently written kanji sat undisturbed. A spot for prayer, or connection, and a spot he didn’t frequent. 

Aside from that, the room was mostly empty. It was like this for every kumicho, having a lack of materialistic distractions sharpened the mind, kept from getting one lost in senseless things. One or two of the elders would frequent his room every other month with no facades of concern, simply making sure he was abiding by the rules and not tainting himself with decoration. Of course, he had the ability to add some decorations to his walls, but it was so limited that Hanzo opted to leave them bare.

This room had housed countless ancestors before him, all of which guided the lineage to himself. This was where his father, Shimada Sojiro, slept, and now where he, Shimada Hanzo, slept. The thought that his father had stood at the exact spot he was made the hairs on the back of Hanzo’s neck stand. He immediately walked over to his futon and began to fix it up. 

That man was dead, there was no need to dwell on him, and the same would go for Genji. Though unorthodox, Hanzo felt the dead could be left behind. At least, not be present to haunt his every waking moment like some fools wished to believe. He could forget them. For now. 

Once the futon was neat, he kneeled near the wooden table and turned on the tea maker. The motions were so familiar and monotonous that when he had gone down to use the bathroom, he had to glance back at the machine to make sure he had turned it on. 

All his motions were monotonous if he thought about it. Controlled and monotonous. _You’re trapped._ Genji’s voice was barely a hush to him, and yet it disgusted him nonetheless. He muttered a curse and tried to think of something other than all of his fucking problems, something not monotonous. 

A particular rugged man came crashing into his very being, metaphorically speaking. A spike of butterflies and excitement began to replace the soured numbness that twisted his insides, and despite him chiding himself over being too childish, Hanzo could not argue that Jesse managed to subdue something deep in him for just a moment. Although Hanzo’s prisoner, Jesse was something else entirely. McCree could make him laugh, was absurdly gorgeous for an American man, finely built, and was so stupid yet brilliant that it stumped him at times. A fine specimen to toy with for someone like Hanzo. 

Even now, when his toying became more incessant than he knew his pet liked, Jesse was as vibrant and interesting as ever. He was one thing the Council turned a blind eye to; Hanzo had assured them that this was nothing more than satisfying urges. If Hanzo were to have claimed Jesse as anything more than a slave, there would have been no hesitation in eliminating the gaijin. Another tradition that the elders enforced, and one that has been enforced for generations before him, was that the kumicho had to provide a child to continue the Shimada legacy, alongside a suitable woman. 

It wasn’t as if Hanzo fantasized having more than just a plaything, no. Not like he’d imagined a life were the circumstances were different, and they both came to each other on normal circumstances, like in school, or some other plain way normal people found each other. Hanzo could give him every inch of himself. 

Well. 

The fantasies had happened once when messing with Jesse’s rich brown hair on a lazy afternoon, but that thought had been crushed finely into dust as all the rest. Such thoughts were wrong. Hanzo was the kumicho to the Shimada Clan and if he could not control himself, he was not fit to serve. 

Besides, Hanzo knew was destined to a life of solitude. Like the reaper, all he touched died. After all, it is better to have some strained manipulated relationship he could toy with and afford to lose than one with significance; one that could end him.

It seemed that his thoughts would not offer him a moment’s rest, not this morning. Hanzo sighed, acutely aware of a dull throb on his lower back, the throbs everywhere else in his body for that matter, and glanced at his wrist watch. A small holographic projection popped up inches from the devices, flashing the weather, snippets of news reports, and other useless information right underneath the time. Four-fifty AM. A good a time as any to be awake, with memories that haunted and thoughts that would not relent plaguing him. He needed a distraction, idle hands were the devil’s workshop and whatnot. 

As if on cue, the tea maker chimed, and Hanzo took it upon himself to drag his heavy legs to the small table. He kneeled and poured himself a drink, proceeded to scald his mouth, and just as quickly decided that tea would not and could not soothe him today. The same decision he had made every other day. 

With sleep out of the question and tea proving to have been more of an annoyance than usual, Hanzo left his room in some aimless search of viable solace. There wasn’t a place in mind that could help him, he roamed aimlessly within those empty corridors often enough in the darkness of night to know that. Which was why he’d surprised himself when he was in front of Jesse’s door. It was a little ways away from his room, which was in the Shimada estate’s largest building. 

Hanzo wasn’t so cruel as to keep Jesse in the small room that he’d been trained in all those months back, though he had thought he could have refurbished it as a constant reminder. No, he’d given McCree a large room, cushioned with American styles and bedding and goods that filled the room till bursting. A different sort of reminder, of how well treated he was. 

The door was unlocked and simple to push open silently. Jesse’s back faced him, and his chest puffed in and out in deep sleep. Just as quietly as he had opened the door Hanzo closed it and practically sneered at himself. How stupid it was for him to think that he should find comfort in a _prisoner_ , at such odd hours nonetheless. 

Hanzo stormed off. Or, he would have, if he hadn’t been trained at birth to be as silent as a mouse. Still, in his natural care, Hanzo was frustrated beyond belief and managed to make some noise, however faint. This morning was chalking up to be more unpleasant than he cared for, enough so that his dragons stirred underneath his skin irritably, a feeling that gnawed at him alongside all the rest of his growing list of things to be upset over. He barely realized grinding his teeth; just as quickly did he stop and school himself. 

Abnormal, this was for him. Hanzo was used to keeping himself cool and detached, as his father had instructed him, but now it seemed like he could barely hold himself together for a single night. The Shimada almost blamed the stressful dream. A mirthless chuckle left him instead; this had been a constant for several months now, and it had nothing to do with his problems-- present and underlying. 

For all of his introspective mulling, Hanzo had only just realized where he was now. This building was where he was truly supposed to take residence-- a building he had abandoned nine years ago. A scowl formed and even when Hanzo wanted to turn heel and stalk off, his body became stiff and unwavering. A wound had reopened that night-- one he’d stitched forcefully shut with rudimentary tools and left to infect for nearly a decade. It was ugly and gaping and refused anything but more pain. He hid behind a face of cool contempt, all the while his innards felt like they wanted to become outwards. 

The building opened up with a large archway, Hanzo stood in front of a small bridge that closed the gap to a wooden island. Bamboo mats dominated most of the ground with two staircases leading to the back; where the room was. It had been untouched for close to a decade. Two large lanterns rested at the right as well as on the left of the island’s edges just behind small railings, each lantern looming a foot or two taller than he. The wall directly parallel to him, above an elaborate wooden shrine, two menacing dragons twisted upon one another. 

The sting that settled in him was irony. The reflection of himself as the dragon that struck down his own brother was glaring, a fable his father had recited to him what felt like a lifetime ago. That made him grimace. The universe had such an interesting way of rounding about, and if by interesting it meant humiliation at his expense. If only the ending of the fable held some meaning or truth other than being a paradox to grim reality. Real life was nothing like the stories their father had told them. Genji would never return.

Keeping thoughts at bay, he continued to study this forgotten place; his former home. To his far left, a large archway gave way to a grand balcony that overlooked much of his city. Memories he managed to smother threatened to surface, something or other of running to hide there when playing games. To the right, there was a staircase that would lead up to the second story, where one could enjoy sights and drink green tea in peace. All of his attention honed in on one thing, though -- the middle of this vast, gaping room.  
A large scroll, gold working either vertical lengths, hung heavy with elaborate kanji. It read,「半蔵が彼から見てる」. _Hanzo is watching from the shadows._

It was never his choice what would be put to there. That went to the elders-- the ones that had decided to manifest his grief into a form of power, words to haunt him. As intended. He sacrificed such a large portion of himself for the good of the clan. The good of his family, the image and reputation, the--

“Hanzo-san, what’cha doin’ out so early?” An all too familiar voice questioned. When Hanzo shot around to look at McCree, he could not hide the surprise on his face. “Guess I still got it in me to mosey ‘round all quiet.” There was a lazy grin on Jesse’s face, his brown hair stuck up from recent sleep in an admittedly charming manner. His eyes were half-lidded as if the weight of waking up almost forced them shut. 

It took Hanzo less than a second to recover his composure of cool serenity, a look so perfect that it lacked any indication he was taken off guard in the first place. His hands sat placidly in front of him, and his cold eyes pierced Jesse’s warm ones. Shimadas were never taken off guard. “Why are you here?” His voice could have frozen over hell. 

“Answering a question with a question, huh?” That grin did not leave him, but it suddenly seemed less mirthful. Hanzo saw Jesse’s eyes flicker from himself to the area around him. “I ain’t really traveled here, and since, uh… Well, since you were here, I thought, y’know… I could come in.” A pause. “It’s a real nice place.”

“Out of the entire estate, this was the one place you were forbidden to enter, McCree. Can you not follow simple instructions?” The cold stare became a hardened glare, and a part of Hanzo felt accomplished when Jesse visibly shrunk back. 

The taller man rose his arms in defeat, “You’re right, an’ don’ I know it, I reckon I should’a trusted my instinct not to follow ya.” The promise of a ‘but’ made Hanzo grip his yukata in irritation. Just as quickly did he pretend he was smoothing it out. “But the sayin’ goes, curiosity killed the cat n’ what not.” Again, there was a grin; it was half-hearted and more suited on a face of a young boy trying to squirm out of getting punished by his mother. Knowing quite well that it wouldn’t work.

Something useful his father had taught him before his inevitable death was that silence served a better way to show someone how much of a fool they were than words ever could. So the Shimada held a look sharp enough to shave with. Jesse began to lose his composure after a short time; scratching the back of his neck, glancing away in bursts. Until the silence became almost painful, a minute that stretched on for what felt like hours.

“What’s even ‘bout this room that’s so upsettin’? Even mentionin’ it makes you madder than a wet hen!” Jesse blurted out, his Southern drawl coming out more than usual. “It ain’t like you blow up or nothin’, jus’ looks like yer fixing to throw some hissy fit, an’ I ain’t even know why. Y’all do somethin’ fucked up, ‘ere, or somethin’? I mean, it’s the only reasonable explanation, this place looks mighty fine, worth a pretty penny, don’t make much sense to waste it or nothin’, keepin’ it here without doin’ much of anything--” realization that he’d been rambling hit a touch later than Hanzo would have preferred, but Jesse shut his mouth all the same. This time, his pet cracked his fingers in anticipation.  
Sometimes Hanzo wondered how different McCree would have been if he’d not trained him. Maybe less willing to break so quickly. Maybe not. 

“You are not worthy of knowing what happened,” Hanzo had perfected the art of making himself appear much taller than he really was. It showed, with how Jesse did not try to straighten out his shoulders or hold a position that would set him as an equal. “You are less than dirt, Jesse McCree, you are my toy, my property, and nothing more.” Those words echoed himself in a memory he turned a blind eye to but hoped Jesse recalled as clear as day. 

A look crossed Jesse’s face. It was gone so fast that the Shimada barely had time to glean it out. It was something close to pain. Or maybe anger, which he doubted. McCree’s hand stroked his beard, and his eyes, dull ones, captured Hanzo entirely. One of the worst feelings the Shimada had was that Jesse’s honey-brown eyes could swallow him whole with just one glance. It made him feel like he was completely losing himself, and it terrified him. Hanzo matched Jesse’s look without hesitation. Never was he the one to back down. “I don’ quite care if I get punished after this, Hanzo, I want you to know, but you look like the kind of guy that holds in more than is worth. Granted, I don’t know squat about things or know a lick of Japanese, but I do know how a guy that gets bullied into a position looks like.” McCree licked his lips and stepped closer to Hanzo. “I guess all I’ll be to ya is a _pet_ , but maybe I could also be som’ more. Talkin’ to someone who’s worth doesn’t amount to a hill of beans--” that phrase was an especially strange one, “--wouldn’ hurt, would it?” 

 

Hanzo noticed that Jesse was a lot closer than before and taller. He hated having to look up at him, but his words were enough to forget it. A part of Hanzo wanted it, wanted to talk, to release some of the sickening demons that had an iron grip on him. The other part of him did not. A third part-- his dragons-- thought of consuming his soul and tearing his flesh. So really, it wasn’t too hard to shake his head, but even then there was some reluctance. “No. I--...,” this time Hanzo’s voice had an edge of… defeat in it. His hands itched to be on Jesse’s body, his strong shoulders. They remained where they were, stiff. A pet was all he was. “I am not bullied, McCree, and you would do well not to mention something so ludicrous again.” That had no heat; a lie barely concealed. To compensate, Hanzo put an edge in his voice, “I do not require a therapist, either and I do not believe you would qualify as one.” 

Something in the way McCree’s eyes looked right past him set him on a different edge. The other man quickly shook his head and smiled all too warmly. “C’mon,” Jesse took one of his hands and tugged, “let’s go somewhere else. How about we sneak into the kitchens an’ grab somethin’ to eat? I am starved if I do say so myself.” 

Hanzo almost did not budge, even though an excuse to leave his guilts was more than pleasant. The heavy feel of being watched made his hackles rise, but he knew what it was. Not a person, or omnic, just the shrine, it’s gaze judgmental and the aura of guilt attempting to shroud him more than it already did. The worst part was, staying there was almost addictive. He wanted the pain and suffering because deep down he knew it was what he deserved. No amount of excuses could condone his actions. The feel of pain stabbing his chest every time his thoughts centered around Genji-- that was there for a reason, and he wouldn’t take it away for anything. 

Yet he found himself walking away hand in hand with Jesse, the man blathering on about the wild dream he had of some far off land. Feeling something other than guilt. And for some reason, it didn’t bother him too much. Maybe he could forget. 

 

***

 

A large wall outlined the perimeter of the Shimada estate, to prevent intruders and unwanted onlookers of the sort. Mostly, it was erected to keep the clan safe, and to have the upper hand if there was a siege to be done. 

A figure stood at the top of the massive wall, hunched down so that both hands touched the structure beneath them. The shadow of a large pillar enshrouded them, keeping normal eyes from being able to detect the figure unless they strained. Cameras would not be able to detect them at this position, either; they had made sure of that. Their perch gave them a clear view of a large balcony, which let them see Hanzo with clarity. The man was speaking to someone that could not be seen, until a tall man, clearly American, came into view. Then the two walked away together, holding hands. 

The lone figure’s hands crushed stone underneath them as if it were paper, and the sound of falling bricks tumbling against the wall echoed, sending an ominous sound throughout the quiet estate. 

At the very bottom of the wall, an omnic dressed in a sharp black suit looked up as a large piece of white wall fell near them. Nothing stood awry; with their enhanced vision, the wall was empty. If anyone had been there, proximity alarms would have rung long ago, anyway. The blame went to the wall’s age, and the omnic returned to keeping watch around the perimeter. 

 

...

 

 _“Hanzo Kumicho,”_ a balding man addressed Hanzo with a curt nod of his head suited for an equal. Hanzo was in seiza in front of three men, and three women, all older than him by a large margin. An embroidered pillow was underneath all of them; his was plain, whereas theirs were elaborate. They surrounded him in a semicircle, eyes shades of brown and clear blue.

They were the Council of Elders, the ones that offered him wizened advice on what to do as well as the ones that came to agreements if Hanzo proposed what to do. They held as much power as Hanzo did, if not more, and they were his family, if not by blood, then by the binding of _sakazuki._

Hanzo’s hands were on his knees, watching the Council around him warily. They only came together to discuss what must be done with the clan, and to give reports on how they were managing with their headquarters residing around the city. Where he gave commands, influenced by them, they executed and commanded their own smaller portions of the clan-blood. Most of it was up-keep with businesses and taxes. 

The man that addressed him was Daiki _saiko-komon_ , or highest advisor Daiki. He spoke in their native tongue. Next to Daiki sat Hisoki, the tallest of them and the only male with a full head of white hair, eyes so dark brown they were charcoal. His tongue was sharp with judgment most days, and more often than not did he seem to feel as if he were _kumicho_ and not just an elder. Adjacent to him was Keiji, a hard man with harder values, a sharp blue eye framing his fiery spirit. Most of it was a front, though; it was Keiji that had slipped Hanzo candy when he was no more than a child forced to be in meetings alongside his father. And it was Keiji who opposed Genji’s murder the most-- of course, until he was beaten to submission by the rest of the Council. A scar that blinded one eye testified to that. 

The three women next to the men were _ane-san_ , older sisters, to Hanzo. They had all the same qualities as saiko-komon but were referred to differently, thanks to tradition. Ryoko _ane-san_ was a cold woman with eyes so light brown they seemed golden. She was the voice that spoke more logic than emotion, and she was the most powerful member of the Council. If anything, she could have been kumicho if she were any stronger. Hanzo could sense more than see a hue of purple energy around her-- the radiance of a dragon. A gift only the Shimada-blood could fathom. She was Hanzo’s aunt, Keiji was his uncle. 

Finally, at the right end of the semicircle, were the twins-- Akira and Akito. Both were identical and particularly difficult to tell who was who. Even their voices were similar. They were all elegance, despite the wrinkles and thinning hair, wearing identical kimonos of a rich blue silk full of intricate pink sakura flowers. Both of them were more handsome than beautiful. It was hard to refer to them separately, too; it was as if they were conjoined by the hip, plotting together with a simple glance, a quality only those who’ve known each other for a lifetime could pull off. 

Hanzo could feel Jesse’s eyes behind him. Even without looking, he knew the scene; Jesse sitting cross-legged and utterly silent, watching the meeting in front of him without really understanding. He was a smart pet, though; Hanzo was sure he was reading body language as if it were made of concise words. 

_“We have had several issues concerning the stability of our hold on Hanamura,”_ Ryoko spoke, her voice cool and smooth, eyes boring into Hanzo’s soul. She could sense his dragons, too. She could sense that he was stronger. _“We are informed that there is someone attempting to sabotage our organization.”_

_“What?”_ Hanzo arched a brow. Sabotage? _“Is it neighboring yakuza?”_

 _“This individual has no ties to any outside families we know of. Our reports claim they are an omnic,”_ Hisoki’s mouth curled in distaste. He abhorred omnics more than anything, and more than once had he presented the idea to do away with the ones that guarded the estate. The benefits of having workers that could keep watch and wouldn’t grow tired were too great to even consider it. It soothed Hisoki somewhat to know they were not considered part of the family. _“He has been doing away with members left and right.”_

_“They have been causing problems with me, as well,”_ Daiki mused, rubbing his long, wizened beard. _“Taxing has been made difficult thanks to this person.”_

 _“It is not a person. It is a thing. You can hardly place a mess of cables as an equal to humans,”_ Hisoki corrected with an indignant glare. Daiki did not hear, or he smartly chose to ignore him altogether. 

_“They must be exterminated. They are a fool for thinking they can attack the Shimada Clan and live,”_ Keiji said, tone thick with frustration. 

_“There is something else concerning them,”_ Akiro began, pulling out a small device from within her kimono. _“This omnic’s tactics are extremely strategic for not being involved with any yakuza organizations.”_ She pulled up a holographic image of some of the clan victims. Most were killed by a sword, but some had shurikens embedded in their throats or chest. Nine victims in total. 

Akito continued, picking up where Akiro left off as if they were one, _“They know our patterns, and our territory. Even more, their style of fighting is very, very similar to what you and your brother had. What every elite Shimada was taught.”_ Akiro nodded in agreement, though sometimes Hanzo was sure they practiced what to say beforehand. There was something underlying Akito’s tone making Hanzo want to bite his tongue as hard as possible. He chose to not dwell on it. 

_“Anonymous tips to the police have been sabotaging some of our deals. We lost ten million in cocaine and twenty-three clan members just yesterday from a police bust. Either we have a traitor in our midsts--,”_ highly unlikely, although how Ryoko said it, she would not be surprised if it were true, _“or this _omnic_ knows more than he should.”_

_“How long has this been occurring?”_ Hanzo asked and almost clenched his hakama as each member glanced at one another.

 _“For four months, now,”_ Daiki said, still running an easy hand down his beard. His eyes held a crease of worry, though. 

Sensing the sudden increase of fury, Hanzo’s dragons stirred underneath his very flesh. Externally, he was calm. Internally, the pits of Hell could not be hotter. His long-sleeved _haori_ hid the glow his tattoo emitted. Ryoko’s eyes widened for only a moment before she reverted to her cool gaze. _“Why have I not been told of this until now?”_ Hanzo sounded cold. 

_“You can hardly complain,”_ Hisoki spat, not too kindly, _“you have been ignoring your duties in order to pay attention to that play-thing. We did what we thought right.”_

 _“We believed we could have dealt with him ourselves, Hanzo kumicho,”_ Keiji said, a look that suggested he had yearned to tell Hanzo earlier. Out of all of them, Hanzo truly only trusted Keiji, and the fact that he, too, kept it hidden made him want to shout at them. Of course, that was not something he would ever do. 

The red-hot anger did not subside. _“And where has that gotten you?”_ Hanzo lifted his chin, tone icy cold, _“All I see is this is a problem and you refused to tell me. You all seem to forget who the kumicho really is.”_ That some of them shift uncomfortably, notably Hisoki. Ryoko stared right at Hanzo without a hint of discomfort. _“We will organize assassins to take him out. Akito-san?”_ She was the head of assassins, so to speak. Where her sister focused mainly on their headquarters and subordinates, Akito multi-tasked and organized, trained, and implemented a group of elite Shimada clan members. Skilled enough to take down even the most protected individual. 

She nodded, but there was hesitation. _“I do not believe that my team would be capable to handle this, Hanzo kumicho.”_

That was a surprise. Hanzo looked at Akito intently. She held too much pride to ever admit something like that. _“Why do you say that?”_

Akiro was the one to respond, her voice firm, almost taking a lecturing tone. _“We have already sent three of our best to do away with him and they never returned.”_

 _“Hanzo kumicho,”_ Ryoko started, regal in all aspects. If he didn’t know any better, he would have guessed she was speaking to some lowly scum and not addressing someone who should be considered a superior. _“I believe that the sisters are attempting to convey they hold some… doubts, as to a task that had been given to you.”_ Both sisters nodded. Keiji threw the _ane-san_ a curious look that he, too, did not understand.

Daiki, once more, took the role of really breaking the news. _“I have been musing the same thing, myself. I believe they are trying to ask… did you truly kill Genji?”_

The question took him off guard. Did _he_ kill his brother? Something deep inside of him felt like it snapped and broke loose. Hanzo openly showed teeth in a snarl, _“You dare question me in such a way?”_ A hue took his tattooed arm now, bright blue and burning. It danced like a flame, ready to spread out and if he was not careful, he could burn himself out and die, but he _almost_ didn’t care. All but Ryoko looked as if they were ready to run. _“I killed him. He died below my feet. The servant I sent did away with his remains. I maimed him to an irreversible point! Genji is dead!”_ He did not realize he was clutching his knees until his fingers began to burn. He did nothing to stop it. _“If you are suggesting I let him live, or that he is somehow alive, discard that thought! It is foolish, and I will not support it!”_ His voice was much louder. He was shouting. Hanzo was getting dizzy. 

_“Of course, Hanzo kumicho,”_ Keiji said, a touch hurriedly, bowing his head, _“we will deal with this omnic if it kills us.”_ The rest bowed their heads as well. Hanzo ground his teeth. All he wanted was blood. That same feeling that helped him kill his brother, feral and out of control. 

_“If you have more to say that does not need urgent attention, save it for the next meeting.”_ Hanzo stood without any farewell, turned on his heel and strode to Jesse. McCree was looking at him with an unreadable expression. No, not _him_ , his arm, which still glowed with the intensity of a small flame. “Follow,” Hanzo barked, rubbing his wrist, trying to calm down his dragons. They twisted and growled, commanding for blood, sacrifice, bliss. He left the room without so much as looking back. 

Suddenly, Hanzo was in his own room with Jesse, and he was shoving the man against the wall, tearing at his clothes with reckless abandon. When he got there, he wasn’t sure. All the Shimada knew was that the same bloodlust that curdled his insides demanded much more, now. Lust fogged his mind more than ever before, overcoming the need for blood by a hair, replacing it with something much more feral. Innate. The need for a mate. 

Jesse took it all as easy as ever, even though Hanzo’s tattoos were glowing and his skin felt like cold ice. Or if he was trying to tell him to stop, Hanzo had no idea. It was all he could do not to destroy Jesse right there and then. It was a razor’s edge that he teetered on; consuming a soul or claiming a mate. If he fell, Jesse would be dead. Sense and logic be damned. 

Somehow Hanzo and McCree had lost their clothes at one point or other, and he was shoving Jesse in against the wall face-first. All the other man could do was moan, a sound so sweet and sharp to his ear that he shivered. Hanzo was pretty sure Jesse had rubbed his dick with lube, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure of anything right then. All his mind chanted was a mantra. _Mate. Kill. Mate. Kill._

He was inside McCree in an instant, one hand on Jesse’s left shoulder and the other holding down Jesse’s hip on the right. A firm grip. McCree clawed at the wall, moaning without care, loud enough to alert anyone near them. Hanzo didn’t notice. Didn’t care. Just got drunk on his moans. 

He rammed into the man and began a hard pace, pleasure blinding him, chasing the thrill of bliss more than anything, to claim. His mantra repeated, practically making him deaf, but McCree’s moans still penetrated and fueled him. To him, this was as good a kill as anything else. 

At points, his dick would slip out, and all he’d do was adjust himself and shove in harder. McCree was almost sobbing. Something he could not feel, but sense, was behind him. He knew if he looked, nothing would be there. Without really knowing how Hanzo knew it was his essence. Blue and blinding, yet completely invisible. A second later, he could feel Jesse’s essence and he got the distinct impression it was fiery and red. Not at all broken or trained. As he continued to seek his orgasm, he could vaguely sense the dragons taking a hold of both essences. 

Jesse threw his head back as the dragons began to weave their essences together. As careful as a mother cradling her child, or a surgeon doing his work. It felt better than any physical sensation corporeal bodies could offer. A lover’s deepest embrace could not come close as a comparison. It was a rushing feeling of togetherness, a sense of pure wholeness that made both of them climax at once. Hanzo trembled, his hips trying to dig in as far as they could, and he had the faint presumption that he was the only thing holding Jesse up. McCree took labored breaths, not moving a muscle, lost for words. 

It was only then that Hanzo truly understood what happened. 

In the rush to quell the dragons, they themselves pushed Hanzo into doing the one thing that could keep them at bay for… For a very long time. Years. They bonded him to Jesse, making both of them… _connected_. Deep in his mind, he could not only feel the impression of his dragons, who now purred happily in a corner, but he could also feel _Jesse_. The very thing that Jesse was. His emotions, his physical sensations, him. If Hanzo concentrated, he could sense just how sore Jesse was feeling. It wasn’t like Hanzo could feel it-- it was more of an awareness. An awareness that Jesse was there. 

Hanzo knew damn well that Jesse felt the same. 

“H-holy… holy shit, what…?” McCree was trying to form some sort of sentence, but he needn’t have to. Hanzo knew how he felt. A ton of awe, and a pinch of fear. Hanzo pulled out of Jesse and held him up by his arms. They could clean later. What happened couldn’t be ignored. “Han, what did you do? I-- I can feel you, but... What did you do?” That awe started to chip away rather quickly, with fear beginning to rush in a lot faster. With legs of jelly that barely supported himself, Hanzo helped them both to his futon and sat down.  
“Quiet down,” he commanded, and while Jesse visibly obeyed, Hanzo could sense that he was extremely displeased. Not at all broken. In fact, even sparks of hate, a bitter thing that left Hanzo surprised, surfaced in that knot inside his brain. “I have made a mistake.” 

“Damn right,” Jesse retorted, and immediately blinked. Fear trampled everything for a split second, in their bond. Even if Hanzo had the heart to hurt Jesse for the response, he couldn’t. He couldn’t even manage to rouse any anger if his life depended on it, right then. Blame shock, but he was dumbfounded. 

“I have bonded to you,” Hanzo said, sounding as numb as he felt. “You are my mate.” 

“What’s that mean?” Jesse asked, his eyebrows climbing. “You mean-- this’ll be like this for the rest of my life? Or will it go away in coupla days, like a sickness?” 

The joke of it all took hold of Hanzo. This was all a really big, convoluted joke. Hanzo was laughing, laughing almost hysterically, because… well, how else was he supposed to handle the situation? It was just his luck that some Genji-wannabe was running around, fucking around with his clan and reopening scars. Now he had done the most intimate thing a human could ever achieve with the very person he had manipulated into becoming a sex slave! It was the universe’s cruel form of payback and Hanzo was sure of it. His dragons were still purring in content, and even that was hilarious. They had never turned an eye of interest to the other man, and more times than one had suggested consuming him. And now he was bonded. 

He had the vaguest impression that Jesse was more than unnerved at the display. When he was finally able to regain his breath from the laughter, he looked at Jesse, traces of a smile still tugging at his lips. “We are together for the rest of our lives. There is no undoing this. The dragons have chosen you.” 

Jesse felt numb, too. While Hanzo was recovering from the sudden mirth, he could feel Jesse straining with an emotion. He could barely tell what. A few minutes of silence stretched where Hanzo had nothing to say and he found it easier to try and pinpoint what exactly it was Jesse was feeling. Until the man exploded. “Y’know-- y’know, you can take my body, my life, my fuckin’ dignity, but now you’ve gone n’ taken my goddamn privacy, taken away the one real thing I had left!” He spoke through grit teeth. “I am done with lettin’ people walk all over me! I am fuckin’ done! I been done! But now I can’t even hide it no more! I been tryin’ to get out of this hell-hole for weeks! Been trynna let you trust me ‘nough so I can get the hell out!” Hanzo opened his mouth, but Jesse rode on, “You’re the worst kinda damn person there is, Hanzo! You’ve literally taken away everythin’ from me, and smiled doin’ it, claimin’ it was some act of goddamn kindness!” At this point he was yelling, and Hanzo could feel every inch of his anger. It was kind of difficult not to let it translate into his own. It felt like it was burning him inside out. “I believed you, too, that’s the worst fuckin’ part! But you were just usin’ me and now--” McCree let out a strangled sound that was like a yell, slamming his fists on his thighs. The sharp pain that coursed through Jesse’s body, Hanzo could sense. 

Hanzo felt more vulnerable than he’d ever felt in his own life. 

Jesse gesticulated wildly, “First Reaper makes me a fuckin’ lapdog, n’ now you make me-- I don’t even know! Some fuckin’ animal! Goddammit! I can’t even act like I’m dreaming no more! Yer in my head!” He held his head and started crying. It was ugly. Hanzo felt it all. All the raw emotions Jesse was cycling through, the Shimada felt it like it was his very own. It wasn’t even a surprise when tears started trailing down his own cheeks. Jesse repeated variations of, “Yer in my fuckin’ head,” quietly, in between gulps of air. 

So many things rushed through Hanzo’s mind. Should he… comfort Jesse? There was something deep in him that kept urging him to do so. Like Jesse was a magnet and he was a piece of metal. Or… should he punish him for plotting disobedience? For trying to escape. That was such a wild thought, Hanzo had been so sure that Jesse was a blind follower, now. Doing away with that thought only brought space for others, worse. If the Council ever figured this out… Losing the title of _kumicho_ would be the least of his worries. 

Hanzo stood up and walked over to where his pile of clean yukatas was neatly folded. Most of them were white and black, plain; not for show, just for him to feel comfortable when he slept. He spared a glance at the clothes that he and Jesse had on earlier, which were strewn about haphazardly. He took a yukata for himself, and put it on, going through the familiar motions of tying. Then he walked over to Jesse and handed him one. Jesse was sniveling now, hiccuping, and staring stupidly at the cloth. “What now?” He said miserably, voice thick. Hanzo could feel the twisting emptiness that was beginning to set in him. 

“We are going to get clean.” 

 

,,,

 

Not only had Jesse been stupid enough to reveal his plan for escape, but now Hanzo didn’t even look at him like he used to. There was a certain gleam in his eye, a possessiveness that wasn’t at all like the look Hanzo gave him before. It was like a pride; a pride that was coupled with having an equal. Hanzo didn’t even look like he realized he was staring like that. 

No matter how hard Jesse tried to ignore Hanzo, he was ever-present in his mind. A small knot that he could not perceive, just feel. Like a parasite in him, feeding off of Jesse. The man was aware of Hanzo’s full physical condition like it was his second body. He was aware of some strength inside of the Shimada that was almost terrifying. That had to be his dragons, the ones that had woven them together. The whole concept made him dizzy. This had to be a nightmare or something. No matter how much he pinched himself, he felt it all, and could not wake. He was awake. Even Hanzo started giving him exasperated looks with the frequency of his pinching, but the shorter man said not a word. 

Even when he left to sleep in his room, he could sense Hanzo as clearly as if he were right next to him. His emotions, his physical awareness, everything. At one point, he could tell that Hanzo got a fucking papercut on his left thumb. 

Jesse tried to block it out, all of it, but it was virtually useless. His soul was tied to Hanzo’s. His fucking _owner_. God, it was all some sick joke. Jesse wondered what he did to earn himself such a living hell. Sure, sixteen different things popped up as an answer, yet to him it did not justify it at all. His life went from one fucked up to a whole nother.

He missed the days where it was just him and his mom, in their dilapidated, yellow house, he missed caring for his younger sister while his mom did ten different things to keep them afloat. He missed that. Missed making pancakes in the morning. Pancakes and eggs and bacon shaped to be a smiling face, so Isabel could be happy and not wonder why she hadn’t seen mom for so long. If he could turn back time, he would do his whole life over. 

Alas, that was not the case. He had to deal with an intruder in his brain that could tell where he was, how he felt, and what was going on with his body. It was insane, and it kept him up at night. Days, Jesse spent ignoring Hanzo, and Hanzo did nothing to contact him or keep him close. In those days, Jesse grew more restless, anxious, out of control. And he felt Hanzo feeling the exact same way. 

On the fifth day, when Jesse really couldn’t handle the crippling loneliness and awareness, he decided to meet someone. Since Hanzo knew where he was going, McCree almost didn’t want to go to her, but he couldn’t handle it anymore. He walked the familiar path and reached the servant’s quarters, counted the doors until he was in front the one in the middle of the long hallway, and politely knocked. It was somewhere near mid-morning, so Jesse was half sure Yume was still in her room. 

The door opened up, and an older woman peeked out. At the sight of him, she brightened and ushered him in with rushed Japanese, closed the door behind her, and turned to him. Yume was short, as in, barely reached his chest short. She looked up at him with a pleased smile, wrinkles and smile lines making her that much more charming. Motherly. She radiated the warmth of a loving mother and pat his chest. “I thought something happened to you! I have not seen you for long time.” 

Jesse smiled and rubbed the back of his neck, “Uh, yeah, sorry ‘bout that.” 

She waved a hand in dismissal, “No worry. Tea?” Yume rushed over to a small table and began to prepare two cups. He hadn’t even nodded yet. “A good thing you came. I was start, eh, worry. Ehmm….” she squinted her eyes, “how do I say? I was going to look for you.” Her accent was much thicker than Hanzo’s, and more often than not she had problems recalling words. It wasn’t a bother to him.

“I can take care of myself,” Jesse was grinning. The fact that she had been worried about him should have made him feel guilty on all accounts, but… It just made him feel like he was worth a damn if this little old lady really cared about him. 

The strong aroma of good tea began to fill the room. She looked at him, “You are tense. _Naze?”_ She always had a sharp eye for when days with Hanzo didn’t go too well. Or when he was just lower than usual. 

That’s how it started, really. There was a solid month when he couldn’t even eat, and Hanzo had been too busy either fucking him or doing something in the clan that prevented him from recognizing his depleting health. At that point, Jesse hoped he could starve himself and die. And then a little servant came into his room and fussed about him, bringing him food and snapping at him when he gave protest. She sat on his bed and watched him eat until he was done, then nodded and left. It was the strangest experience. 

She became a close friend in the five months he’d been captured. He visited Yume often, before the bonding, and took her advice. She was positive, and kind-hearted, and made him feel better even when the world seemed impossible to deal with. Yet she could be a total hard-ass when she thought that Jesse was being stupid. She never asked what Hanzo did to him, it was practically common knowledge, and treated him like an equal, if not someone she really cared for. 

Jesse sighed and sat down next to her. Yume began to pour them both cups, it was almost funny how the cup looked minuscule in his hand and massive in hers. “Shit’s happened, and bein’ here’s so much worse than it used to be. I thought I could escape, n’ now… I think I’m trapped for good.” The tea was bitter and tasted delicious. At first, he abhorred the way she made it, and now he craved it whenever he felt bad. It soothed him to the deepest level. 

A grunt that sounded akin to understanding came from Yume. She eyed her tea with an unreadable expression. “You know, I never part of this clan. I was seiko-shita… successful, made a lot of money, and I refused Sojiro _kumicho_.” She looked at Jesse, and for the first time, he saw fire in them. It was of rigid determination. “I woke up here. My brother took over. He took care of company and he accept Sojiro _kumicho_.” Her eyes were squinted, and lips thin. If it were on any other face, he would have been uneasy.  
“That’s horrible,” Jesse sympathized, frowning. 

_“Hai, demo_ when Sojiro kumicho die, Hanzo kumicho gave option,” Yume raised her hand with two fingers up and wiggled them, “stay and get money for work, or leave and get money to leave. I work here many years, _dakara,”_ she dropped one finger and kept her index up, “I stay.” After that, they sipped some tea in silence. Jesse was trying to process what the point of her story was. If there _was_ a point other than succumbing to Hanzo, to Shimadas. “I older, and I had no more places to go. You are young.” 

“I can’t escape, even if I go anywhere,” Jesse sighed, shoulders dropping. “He did something, I don’t know how to explain it. He’ll always know where I am.” 

Yume pursed her lips and set her cup down, looking at him with a curiosity that seemed misplaced on someone of her age. “Hanzo hurt you.” A nod from McCree made Yume nod. “You try talk?” Her face scrunched up in a way that meant that wasn’t really what she wanted to say.

“Have I tried talking to Hanzo?” She nodded quickly. If his explosion could be considered talking, then maybe. Jesse shrugged, “Somewhat, yeah.” 

“How he react?”

“We haven’ spoken much after that,” he mused, tipping back his cup of tea to down it in one go. He was faintly aware that Hanzo was feeling irritated. “He hasn’t called me for nothin’.” He placed the cup down on the table. 

“Maybe now is chance,” she said, and then shifted so that she was kneeling and facing him. She put her hands on Jesse’s lap. “I see how he look at you, Jesse,” with her accent, it sounded like she said Jeshi, “Hanzo… _Etto, ai,_ how says… _Hanzo kumicho ha anata o aishiteimasu.”_ She really was struggling, and Jesse couldn’t really put it what she was trying to say. After a solid minute of her tapping her fingers in thought, she blurted out, “Love!” Yume sounded as fervent as if she had figured out a cure and was claiming it for the first time. “Hanzo is love with you.” 

He could stop the bark of a laugh that came out of him. _In love? Hanzo?_ If that man could feel anything other than contempt, Jesse would be surprised. Except… He could feel what Hanzo was feeling, now, so… “He ain’t in love with me, Yume. I know yer trynna help n’ all, but he done me bad for a long time. I ain’t just gonna run to him now that he’s got my privacy in his hands.” 

Yume harrumphed and shook her head, mumbling something in Japanese that sounded a little too much like scolding. She rose, holding her back as if she had an ache, and said, “I have many work to do, Jesse. Come again tomorrow,” although dismissing him, she sounded kind. Jesse stood up and was surprised when she hugged him. Then muttered something else, decidedly less scolding than before. He left with more questions than answers, but at least he wasn’t feeling as shitty as he had been. 

 

*** 

 

Days passed, crawling with a slowness that he did not like. He had been ordered not to pursuit, to wait for something that he didn’t care to listen to, but he had had enough. Today, he was finally going to kill his murderer. The universe had set in motion this and given him the opportunity of revenge. Genji was going to end Hanzo.  
The day he woke up from death he remembered like it was yesterday. 

 

Darkness oppressed him, yet sounds pierced the veil that held. It was someone speaking English, albeit in an accent Genji had never heard before. _“Patient 004 is exhibiting beta brainwaves,”_ a woman said, gentle voice as soft as silk. 

His body was… heavy, and numb. He couldn’t open his eyes; that felt like it would take too much effort, not to mention doing anything that remotely involved moving his body. Where was he? 

_“Hello? If you can comprehend me, take a deep breath.”_ Genji did, and he heard the sound of hands clapping together and a happy exclamation. _“Fantastic! Alright, I’m going to boot up your…”_ she trailed off to a low murmur, sounding concentrated. After a minute of her soft mumbles, he felt full control over his body. He opened his eyes to a blinding white light and shot up to defend himself. A quick look around revealed a lab. Not a hospital. What was that thing about being a _patient?_

Blind panic made him scramble up, or attempt to, but there was so much shit plugged into him, and-- the woman had her hands on his chest, “No, no! Do not move! I have to remove all the equipment, Genji.” For half a beat he wondered why the hell this lady knew him, and for the other, he realized his hands were not hands. They were covered in a silvery metal plating. In fact-- his whole body was… 

“What is going on?” Genji questioned while sitting back down, Japanese thick on his tongue and voice shaking in shock. “Who are you? What have you done to me?” His breathing picked up and he was looking all around, then back at his hands. “Take this off of me,” he demanded, reaching down to pick off the armor that covered his body. A panel on his arm came undone, and the sight that met him was not flesh, but sets of wires and… inhuman parts. He really couldn’t tell that the woman was trying to talk to him. 

This was not _just_ a prosthetic arm. His whole body was covered with the stuff, legs and all. A small part of him realized he couldn't even _feel_ anything, heat or cold, the hands that had been on his chest. What was he? 

“Genji,” the woman called, taking ahold of the hand. His hand. “My name is Angela,” her voice was warm, so warm, and full of hope. Happiness. She looked at him like he was a miracle that she had concocted, like an angel full of puffed up pride over doing their duty. “You were almost dead. It was lucky that someone in your clan had been a patient of mine many years ago. She brought you to me, and I was able to resuscitate you.” Angela patted her flesh hand on top of his metal one, “The damage done to you was… extensive, but I was able to…” Genji stopped listening after that. He remembered, now. Hanzo had killed him. His older brother murdered him. For a clan that loved him less. 

It was then that hate replaced any other emotion. Genji vowed he would murder his brother. It was no coincidence that Angela was not a doctor; she was a cutting-edge medical expert that worked for an organization which had a special interest in him. For years he worked under Blackwatch, a team of special operatives that did dirty work that Overwatch called for. Overwatch itself was a worldwide peacekeeping organization who dealt hands-on with problems around the world, but they had a need for quieter methods to be put into play. He was one of their most valued assets. Now he was able to do what he’d wanted to do when he first got out. After nine years of suffering in a body that was not his own, Genji could finally repay his brother. Put him through more pain than himself. Drag him down and make him truly suffer. And with him, the Shimada Empire will fall. 

It was six AM, and Genji stood atop the same section of the wall he had perched on days earlier. His visor helped him see much farther than he could on normal circumstances; it had a UI that he could direct with thought, which was now scanning the near vicinity for any sign of lifeforms. Below him walked omnics from time to time, with bodies thicker than him, who rarely bothered to look up. If they did, the morning sun was just peaking, offering him ample shadow. So far, his death-room held no one. He should have suspected Hanzo wouldn’t be able to sleep there after murdering him. Somedays, he liked to fantasize that Hanzo had taken part in his rebirth.

His armor covered him head-to-toe and was sleek, metallic, and a black that somehow did not shine. The mask that hid his face was the same black as the rest of his body, visor a deep red. Nodes and lines that offered ventilation to the small parts of him that were still flesh held the same glowing red hue. His comms were offline. Genji didn’t want to be bothered. 

In a flash of red light, Genji dashed from his perch to the edge of the balcony, climbing up with ease. His body released some air, and he pressed on, venturing inside of his former home. It was virtually untouched, aside from the scroll, which made him huff in dissatisfaction. What poor taste. His eyes landed on the two blades that sat underneath the scroll. A hidden grin formed and in an instant, he picked up the one that had been used to end him.

Unsheathing the blade, his visor analyzed it and gave him a report. Clean as a whistle and sharper than a razor. Fantastic. He dropped the sheath and tested the blade out, slicing and dancing around air. It handled wonderfully, and Genji understood why Hanzo had made this his weapon of choice. Oh, how the universe knew how to please him. This was simply meant to be. Call him unhinged, but getting revenge seemed like destiny at this point. 

With the blade in hand, Genji stalked out of the room and into the large courtyard. He kept to the shadows, crouching along and dashing to avoid wandering omnics until he was near the Shimada estate’s largest building. If he were Hanzo, he would be somewhere in there. His fingers itched to be done with it, but he schooled himself for patience. Nine years of patience had led him to this moment, a couple minutes more would not kill him. 

Several servants were walking through opened halls, carrying laundry or simply rushing to go tend to something or other. The family was quite large. Staking out the whole estate would be difficult, but he was sure his best bet would be the only one he needed. Father’s room. 

 

… 

 

Hanzo was sound asleep, for once in his life. Which made him wonder what caused his eyes to shoot open. The door had opened, he’d been sure of it, but a quick inspection made him not so sure. An uneasy feeling lingered in his gut, so he stood up and made his way to the light, right next to the closed door. The light blinded him for only a second, and when he adjusted he felt a bit silly. There was nothing and no one there. Maybe he was being paranoid. 

Something above him made a sound, distinctly electronic, and Hanzo had just barely the time to dodge out of the way as a large black figure swooped down. He was on his knees, and he did not spare a glance before putting distance between them. 

Crowding the doorway was a metallic omnic, one that had lodged a sword on the ground that Hanzo had stood on. It tugged the sword out with ease and tilted its head in curiosity. The action was too familiar. 

A flashback of his brother, young and hair full of green dye, looked at him the same exact way after not understanding what Hanzo said. A thousand times the same way, all the way until he was a young boy who was wondering why it was that there were poor people when they could give others money. The same inclination. 

It wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. Terror began to seep into his veins. 

_“I would have thought my brother would be happier to see me,”_ he said, voice sounding synthesized and… all too familiar. He spoke in Japanese with the same careless ease as… 

Adrenaline kicked in with a force and Hanzo’s heart was beating faster than he thought was possible. He shook his head, _“No. You are not my brother!”_ He realized he had no more ground when his back hit the wall, _“Genji is dead. I killed him!”_

The black-armored ghost swooped forward with ease, holding the katana as if were an extension of himself. That was one difference; Genji had always been clumsy with a blade. He stood not four feet away, now. A hissing sound met Hanzo’s ears, and suddenly the masked thing removed his visor. A marred, pale face, full of old scar tissue and two white, pale eyes stared at him. Hanzo had to look away, holding his stomach at the sudden urge to throw up. 

It was Genji’s face. 

_“Look at me, Hanzo,”_ the other said, almost gently. When Hanzo did not comply, Genji shouted a fierce, _“LOOK AT ME!”_ Hanzo dared to look up, labored breathing making him weak. No matter how he wished that it would become someone else’s face, Genji still looked at him. Glared at him, really. _“You ruined me, Hanzo. I am this because of you. I lost my dragon, he sacrificed his energy to keep me alive. You do not know how empty I have been without him. Because you were a coward and listened to those Elders believing you would gain power and respect. Did you, by the way?”_ Genji was much closer, his voice almost took that of someone talking about how pleasant the weather was. Until he growled, _“Was it worth it?”_

Nothing but blank denial filled his mind. Hanzo shook his head and opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came. Was this where he’d die? Looking at the brother he had murdered-- attempted to murder, in the eye? With a voice much weaker than he intended, he called out, _“Genji…”_

Suddenly the katana was being swung and Hanzo had only a split second to react, dodging out of the way as best he could. A sharp pain on his cheek had warm blood dripping immediately, and he knew Genji would have gotten his throat in that if he hadn’t moved. Dragons roared in displeasure under his skin, demanding to be released; Hanzo pushed them down as hard as he could. He had no weapon. There was a deep groove on the wall where Genji had missed. Hanzo desperately looked for some alternative was for escape. Genji was facing him, the door was to his left... if he could just… 

Just what? 

This was what he deserved. To be done away by the one person who truly cared for him, the way Hanzo had done. Even as he came to that conclusion, his body sure as hell wanted to survive. He was as tense as a coil and ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Faintly, Hanzo was aware that Jesse was alarmed. 

_“Was it worth it, brother?!”_ Genji snarled, bearing teeth. His voice was no longer controlled, it was full of rage and grated alongside the electronic undertone. _“Was all of this worth it?! You ruined me! You ruined us! Well?! Speak!”_

_“No!”_ Hanzo finally managed to shout, his hand trying to wipe away some blood. It stung. _“Genji, I was a fool. What I did to you was… It was unspeakable. I have been living in regret and pain,”_ it was a wonder he wasn’t crying. Saying that was hard, and not only because he was staring at the face of his victim. He had never spoken to a soul about how he felt after Genji died. _“I cannot ask for your forgiveness. There is no forgiveness for the crime I committed.”_

Something in Genji’s look changed as if he were considering something. It was gone altogether in a second, leaving Hanzo to wonder if he imagined it. The look fury remained, and it was hidden as Genji put his visor back on. A breath was all Hanzo managed before things spiraled out of control. 

There was a yell and Genji dashed forward. It was lightning quick; Hanzo could not react. Then, there was pain unlike any he’d ever felt, and when he looked down, he saw the blade inside of his stomach. A numbness overcame the pain, and he blinked stupidly. He was cut. In the stomach. The blade was still inside of him. He heard laughing, but it was hard to focus on anything. There was a katana inside him. The alarm he'd felt earlier grew to sheer panic. 

_“I will leave you to bleed, as you left me, brother,”_ Genji’s voice was full of mirth. _“No one will save you. When you die, I will kill the Elders, and I will put an end to the Shimada name.”_

The door crashed open, a savage looking McCree taking in the scene, and Genji groaned. It sounded too much like Genji when he wouldn't get his way. _“I will have to kill him, then. A shame, I was thinking of taking him for myself.”_ The feeling of a blade being ripped away from where it had been stuck inside of you was not pleasant. In fact, Hanzo screamed and crumpled to the ground, curling in on himself to try and stop the pain. Blood was everywhere. He forced himself to look at Jesse, though spots danced in his vision. 

“Run!” Hanzo croaked, clamping his teeth shut as a wave of pain surged. “Run! Go!” His dragons were wildly roaring in his flesh, he had barely caught the faint response Jesse gave him.

“I ain’t leavin’ without you!” 

That was the last thing Hanzo heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i might continue


End file.
